http://lutherbutler.tripod.com/





Forex Trading
-
THE resource for Forex!

APACHE ROSE by LUTHER BUTLER (AN UNFINISHED NOVEL. all publishing reserved YOUR COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED lbutler@erath.net
In the Texas mountains called Davis there is a pass where wild roses grow. At one time a tribe of Mescalero Apaches lived among the flowers. Early travelers who wrote noted these Apaches left after the American Civil War. APACHE ROSE tells where these fighters for freedom went and what they did to try to preserve their ancient ways.

CHAPTER ONE
Throughout the cool, blustery day, the lanky wolf had loped along the black buggy’s flank. The lawyer and his small son kept their eyes on their coal black horse that had a single white star on its forehead.

“May snow a little tonight, Son.” The slender father dressed in black from the hat to the black tie that set off his starched white collar. A black revolver rested snugly in a black holster positioned in easy drawing reach of his left hand. On his right side a recently oiled rifle rested against the buggy seat.

“Why are three men riding with us, Papa?” The boy was a spitting image of his father not only in dress but also in features. There was no doubt he was his father's child.

His father tried to keep worry out of his voice. “Probably drifters.” He knew better. The lone rider in front seemed familiar.

Twice the wolf failed to notice jack rabbits.
A lanky man riding in the rear started to bring up his rifle.
His companion growled, “Weren’t hired to kill wolves.”
Holding up his hand, the lead rider signaled with his black hat. It was time.

The wind whistled over twelve mounds of dry carelessly stacked gramagrass. The bleak horizon stretched north to the Sierra Blanca where white tipped peaks told of a recent snowstorm.

Drawing his rifle, the father prepared to defend himself and his son. A shot from the rear dug deep into the driver’s left shoulder. He dropped his rifle.

Wolf and riders converged. The time had arrived.
The lead rider gave a curt command. “Kill him.”
One of the two riders shot the father’s right hand. Clumsily, his quickly drawn pistol fell.

“Leave my son alone,” he pleaded.

“Goin’ to prosecute my brother fer murder; wasn’t you?”

“Boy had nothing to do with it.” He recognized his adversary.

“Get the boy.”

Grabbing the child, the two crushed his tender head against a buggy wheel.

“No.” A slug caught the father between his eyes. A glob of brain marked the exit.

“Let’s go,” the leader said curtly. His cold, steely eyes reflected no light. A killer’s eyes, a killer’s face, and a killer’s steady hands, he showed no remorse.

When they looked back, the boy’s innards hung from the wolf’s bloody muzzle.

Mournful wind followed the three riders’ departure. Not until they were well out of hearing distance did the mounds of dry gramagrass turn into Mescalero Apache youths with pieces of deerskin protecting their privates. Watching the narrow road for a spell, the twelve warriors-in-training waited until the assassins were out of sight before they erased their moccasin prints and headed home.

The one christened Fierce Eagle, but still called Young Eagle, spoke first. “Dull Knife, we better forget we ever saw this.”

“Big trouble come if white men know.”

“Likely we would never get a chance to tell our story. Apaches always get blamed.” Young Eagle grasped a light robe around his neck. “White man crueler to each other than Apache.”

Dull Knife shuddered. “Apache seldom kill small boy. Wonder what brought this about?”

“Father says white men fight over this land. They never remember Ussen, Creator of Life, owns all things. Indian live, die, and goes to other world without leaving anything behind.”

For a long time the youths were silent. They were learning to walk great distances without encumbering themselves with anything but a knife, flint for starting fire, and a bow and arrows. The sun had set ten times since they left their homes. None of them were very tired. Traveling long distances was part of their training. Warriors dulled by fatigue could not kill the enemy. Dividing in thirteen different directions and regrouping at a place whispered by their leader was also an important part of their training. Each youth knew Apaches stayed alive because the enemy could seldom find them.

Young Eagle gave the orders to the twelve whom walked with every sense alert to their surroundings. Every bush, rock, or tree could conceal an enemy. Every ravine could hide white men or Mexicans who would gladly kill these future warriors of the treacherous Mescalero Apaches.

Young Eagle loved this time before heat of summer turned into blasts of winter wind. Soon he knew his people would sit in their homes made of animal hides and depend on food they had gathered during a time when plants and animals were more plentiful.

Young Eagle spoke first. “Chief Manuelito wants to leave Mescalero country and seek help from Carson.”

“Manuelito is an old woman full of years.” Dull Knife spat after he spoke these words. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. “Apaches don’t run from trouble.”

“Father says people from Texas bring cattle in here for grazing. Mexicans and White-eyes who were here first want to be left alone.”

“Apaches were here first.” Dull Knife watched a thin cloud of dust the three murderers’ horses made. Thinking about having to leave this land rimmed by mountains caused his eyes to water. His heart turned to a stone, hard and cold, without feeling.

“It doesn’t matter. According to the people from Texas, possession means nothing. Yet when they get their names on documents saying the land is theirs, they will do anything to keep it. Father says perhaps running is our only way of keeping alive. Chief Carson will keep these bloodthirsty Southerners from killing us.”

Dull Knife threw his knife at a rabbit that waited too late to jump from its fur-lined nest. The well-thrown weapon severed the squealing animal’s jugular vein. “We eat tonight,” the successful hunter said.

As they cleaned the warm animal along with an assortment of desert rats, snakes dug from a den, and a wild pig, Dull Knife kept up the conversation they carried on about the move. “Five years ago our parents fled from our home in the mountains white men call Davis. We did nothing wrong when we tried to keep settlers and stagecoaches from traveling across our hunting grounds.”

Young Eagle agreed. “I was so young I can hardly remember the first time we left our old home. The white man cares nothing about animals and birds, our god, Ussen, gave us to enjoy and eat.”

“To the east, large herds of cattle are replacing our buffalo. Stupid animals have to have men watching them all the time. Our buffalo, deer, and antelope care for themselves.” Dull Knife expertly let the rabbit’s guts drop onto bloody grass. The dry earth quickly soaked up the coagulating blood that drew a small swarm of blowflies.

“I miss our birthplace in the Texas mountains we left to come and live with our Mescalero cousins.” Again Young Eagle looked to see if dust caused by three horses was far enough away so they could cook an evening meal over an almost smokeless fire.

Dull Knife instinctively knew what his cousin thought. “Eating uncooked food makes the stomach growl noisily.”

“It doesn’t hurt near as much as being torn by wolf fangs.” Young Eagle shuddered when he remembered what had happened to the small white boy. “Perhaps we should have tried to prevent his death.”

“And die ourselves? Even if we were not Indians, they would not have let us live. Were it not we could be punished for the killing, I would go to the officer at Fort Stanton and tell what we saw.”

“They would think only an Apache would be so cruel to kill a small boy in such a brutal way.”

The lithe, sinewy youths walked in silence. Until they had witnessed the killings, their trip had been an adventure leading into manhood. Now instead of making up imaginary enemies, one of them would have to keep a watchful eye for the three white men. Surely if the wrong people saw them, death could come quickly.

They slept and awoke two times. On the third morning they were close to their home country. The Sierra Blanca Mountain, a part of the Sacramento Range, rose abruptly out of brush, swales with seepy spots of grass, and dry arroyos.

By the time shadows lengthened toward eastern peaks, they would be home. They had followed a small river for the past two days. Cottonwood trees with yellow leaves turned by approaching winter replaced groves of willows. Mountain junipers and pinyons reached to where golden aspens painted by first frost nestled among dark green pine and spruce trees that lifted their erect tops toward majestic mountain peaks.

Above them on the stream they could see the sawmill operated by the dentist, Dr. Joseph Hoy Blazer. Mescalero sometimes helped make pine lumber. The Apache lads knew since Spanish Colonial times most of the wood for buildings in the area had come from this mill.

“Blazer will be glad to see us,” Young Eagle said.

The other youths agreed. “He is the only white man who has treated us like human beings,” Young Eagle said. Tomorrow he would go to visit his doctor friend and his wife and son. That was after he visited Apache Rose’s dwelling. Pretending to talk to her father, Running Deer, about how best to treat snakebite, he would cast covetous glances at the beautiful young maiden he planned to marry. Thoughts of the maiden with long black hair caused a stirring in his loins. It was not too early to think about starting a small Apache in her strong womb.

Young Eagle walked silently through his mother’s corn patch. Old Man Beaver Tail’s family raised a patch of pumpkins ringed by squash. The well-tended fields they walked across for almost a mile were irrigated from the Tularosa River, a rushing mountain stream fed from snow banks and springs. Already the water turned cold even though frost had not reached this far down the mountain slope.

The youths immediately started to find the wickiups their families had lived in since early spring. Soon they would leave the mountains and dwell in a lower elevation until warmer spring days told them it was time to come back to the high country.

“I wish we could stay here all year.” Dull Knife spoke the wish of all these Mescalero youths.

Young Eagle quickly pointed out, “The cold would freeze us. In another moon the stream will freeze. Winter will drive the deer and elk farther south.”

“I still prefer the mountains,” Dull Knife said.

The youths hurried to where their mothers made packs of their belongings.

The women took little time to greet them. Young Eagle’s mother, Canor, was small with a voice like the songbird. Her long, black hair hung loosely down her back. Today she wore hides from a bobcat to keep her warm. Bright red cloth was neatly woven into the hides so that it accented her bronzed complexion. The evening like the promised frost-tinged morning was cool.

“Hurry, Young Eagle,” Canor told him. “By tomorrow Manuelito says we must be on our way to where Carson lives at Santa Fe with his Mexican wife.”

“There is no way we can stay here in our land where mountains touch the sky?”

His mother turned to her packing. “The country is alive with men on horseback looking for the Territorial Judge and his small boy. They will blame the killing on Apaches.”

Young Eagle knew why he thought he recognized the murdered man and his son. The lawyer had fought for the rights of Mexicans, small ranchers, and Mescalero Apaches. Greedy Texans who had driven in large herds of cattle wanted to rid the country of anyone who stood in their way.

The youths ran to help load mules. “We are fortunate to be alive,” he told his friends. “The leader of the killers was the gunfighter called Drifter.”

Dull Knife threw a pack of dried mescal onto a waiting mule. “I have seen bad whites’ knives stained for less than witnessing the death of a white man and a small boy.”

When the sun had risen halfway into the sky, Manuelito led his mountain Indians north by west toward where the Rio Grande lay beyond the land covered by the strange black rock white men call lava. The band of Indians would soon be in the place where death struck quickly and surely.

Strung out for more than a mile, the chief led his braves toward their destination. Solemn at first, one and then another brave started a strange chanting song that lifted the people’s spirits.

Those who rode the lead animals sang of when these people once chased buffalo before the savage Comanches caused them to seek shelter in the high mountains and deserts.

The sad songs turned into songs about Ussen, Painted Lady, and their child, named Child of the Water, who was conceived after a lightning bolt filled his mother’s womb.

Behind the horses came pack mules with burdens shared equally. Food for the long journey north lay covered by hides and blankets. After the pack animals came the women and children driving a small flock of sheep.

Young Eagle remembered when this same caravan came back after their spring gathering of mescal heads. His people had sung happy tunes and told jokes. It had been a joyful time. The people were then returning from their winter exile in the desert land of Mexico.

Now, not knowing what lay ahead, Manuelito’s people were going into an unknown future. Young Eagle knew not even the great Carson might save them from exile to where the other Indian nations were kept on reservations in Oklahoma Territory.

Over the melancholy travelers came the sounds of animals forced to leave their mountain pastures. When they reached the arid wastelands, Young Eagle turned to look at looming peaks of the Sacramentos. A tear wet his cheek. He was leaving a lifestyle he enjoyed a great deal in land ringed by mountains. He thought his heart would break.

Turning from his sad look at his beloved mountains, he hurried to find his place in the caravan. Only an uncertain future was a certainty.


CHAPTER TWO*
Young Eagle’s hard, muscular sun-browned body glistened with water from the muddy river Mexicans call Rio Grande. Today was the third day he had sought to trick the wary wild mallards into sitting still so his friends could gather them to feed starving relatives. Fall and approaching cold weather brought the waterfowl out of the high country. Filling empty stomachs was more important than swimming in chilling cold water.

Dull Knife and the other future warriors helped him make bobbing yellow gourds float among the hundreds of suspicious ducks. The brightly-colored drakes and the more dowdy colored hens made no indication of noticing the floating objects. Before sunset, the youths would capture the unsuspecting birds.

Young Eagle knew his people would need all the meat they could obtain. Confined from going south to warmer climates by the Bluecoats, his people were on their way to seek help from their trusted friend, Kit Carson. . After crossing the Malipas where lava flows had cut their ponies’ unshod hooves, they were resting before traveling northward toward the Mexican town of Santa Fe.

“Our travel along the river will be easier,” Dull Knife said.

“But it will be more dangerous,” Young Eagle reminded him. “Bluecoats guard Fort Craig.”

After the youths captured their floating gourds downstream from the feeding fowls, they hid among willow bushes. Soon the ducks would return to their late afternoon feeding place at the edge of where small water life fed among the stubble of dead rushes.

Methodically chewing tough venison jerky, they took turns watching. Bluecoat Cavalry did not always laze in protected places to take siestas like the lazy Mexicans did.

Young Eagle lay with his head resting on his folded arms. For almost an hour he thought of the Mescalero maiden, Apache Rose. He dreamed of when she would have her first bleeding signifying she had become a woman. Although still a youth, he knew when the time came, he would take five ponies from his mother’s herd. The girl’s father would acknowledge the warrior, Fierce Eagle, wanted to marry his daughter.

Dull Knife broke the youth’s sexual fantasy. “Our chief, Manulieto, still counsels our people to turn themselves into Chief Carson.”

Slowly letting the naked vision of the enticing girl fade from his sight, the youth spoke sharply. “Manulieto is an old woman full of many fears. Our Mescalero warriors shall win many battles. Bluecoat soldiers will see how determined Apaches are to remain free. Father says soon these invaders will go back to their families across the Big Water.”

Dull Knife would not be silenced. “Chief Manulieto doesn’t think White-eyes will ever leave land of our people. Every time we kill one soldier, five more take his place.”

Young Eagle knew If their chief turned them into Carson, he could never earn the true name, Fierce Eagle, he felt destined to wear. Captured Indians on reservations became old women. Sitting on blankets in front of their shacks, they solaced their loss of freedom out of whiskey bottles. When the youths were babies in cradleboards, their parents had escaped from white men’s captivity at Bosque Redondo. That was when they had returned to the Davis Mountains where men in gray neglected the ruin once known as Fort Davis.

“I hid among the bedding while Manuelito talked to my father,” Dull Knife said boastfully. “Our chief says since White-eyes have stopped fighting in a war between themselves, they will turn and capture the Apaches.”

“He would have us turn over and die from fright. We are free people, and we will die free people.”

A younger youth came from guard duty. “Ducks circle into their feeding places. Come, or it will turn dark before we have meat to take to our people’s campfires.”

Approaching evening brought peace across the glistening river. Far to the northeast, Sandia Mountains stood stark against a blue sky. If Manuelito had not become a tired old woman, the boy knew his people would ordinarily hunt deer in its peaks before dropping south to their home in the Tulerosa before stinging cold drove them even farther southward across the Rio Grande into Mexico.

Silently snaking through cattails, they entered the placid water. In a grove of fragrant willows with leaves turned brown and yellow from fall, the youths donned gourds. Their masks fit over their heads and covered all their faces but their black, playful eyes showing through eyeholes.

Silently without making a ripple, they fanned out. Not even their bags woven from mescal fiber showed above the rippling current. Ducks busily went about their business of feeding in brackish water away from the main stream. The feeding water birds did not realize the familiar gourds hid youths anxious to turn them into food to feed hungry Apaches.

Silently floating as though the swift current pushed them toward shore, the bobbing objects came into the duck’s feeding area.

The hunters worked swiftly and silently. Ducks did not raise their heads when one of their members dove in pursuit of an underwater morsel and did not reappear. Diving ducks seldom came up where they dove.

Each boy had five dead birds in his bag before swimming swiftly to shore. So silent had been the capture, not one of the quacking ducks sensed some of their members were missing.

Coolness of evening brought drifting smoke scented with cooking food through thick growths of willows down a ravine where the Apaches camped by a hidden spring. Mothers silently went about preparing welcomed venison for evening meals. Wild onion bulbs and savory roots joined wild greens to make a savory stew cooking in leather pouches. Each scorching hot rock dropped hissing in the seething broth caused hot bubbles to send odors causing pangs of hunger to go through the digestive systems of each of the duck hunters.

Young Eagle was glad the women still had dried mescal gathered from towering century plants last spring. While they rested, the women had cooked the dried pulp and made fiber clothe from the plants. Perhaps, he thought, the men would have a little mescal for drinking.

“Perhaps,” he said to Dull Knife, “when the men have loosened their tongue with a little drink, Manulieto will tell us more of Ussen, Painted Lady, and Child of the Water.”

Dull Knife looked at his friend with a quizzical look. “Do you believe the Great Spirit impregnated Painted Lady and caused her to have Child of the Water by using a lighting bolt?”

“I can see nothing wrong with such belief.” Young Eagle did not have doubts his friend did.

“Lighting in such a sensitive place would not be bearable.”

Young Eagle let the thought play in his mind a few moments before he said, “It is the thought that counts. The Great Spirit wanted Painted Lady to bear his son so the Mescaleros would have a champion to kill their enemies. Only in the old days when the world was young, instead of white men who killed our people, giants were on the earth.”

“Sometimes I think Manuelito confuses the painted Virgin Mary and her Christ child with our Painted Lady and Child of the Water.”

“Where would he have seen such a thing?” Young Eagle tried not to let Dull Knife confuse his strong belief with such logic.

“Remember our chief was raised by Mexicans. On their ranch there was a chapel all the slaves were forced to attend even as our ancestors were when Spanish priests forced our people to worship before their cross.”

“So?” Young Eagle asked much in one word.

“So, our Painted Lady with a boy baby and the Virgin Mary with a boy baby becomes one in our people’s mind.”

“There is one difference,” Young Eagle said.

“What is it?”

“The Christ child helps the Mexicans and whites. Child of the Water helps the Mescalero.”

“If you ever see him, tell me.” Dull Knife closed the conversation.

CHAPTER THREE
Young Eagle and Dull Knife finished cleaning their catch before their companions were out of the water. The two youths stood waiting for their wet bodies to quit dripping. Coolness of fall made them welcome last rays of a dying sun.

Young Eagle was first to sight three rough men riding toward Pueblo de Albuquerque. It was too far for them to reach before dark. The youth grabbed Dull Knife and drew him into a clump of tall grass where they lay silent as young quail waiting for their parents to give the all clear.

“Who are they?” Dull Knife asked.

Young Eagle touched his friend’s ear with his lips. “They killed the two in the buggy.” A shudder went up both youths’ spine.

The other youths were unable to get out of the water. The three killers stood silhouetted against the setting sun. A rifle and two pistols spoke in unison.

Young Eagle cowered with only his eyes peering over a weathered piece of driftwood. The man in the black hat, who had ridden before the doomed buggy, spoke softly. “Two still live.”

For a moment Young Eagle thought he and his hiding companion had been seen. When two pistols barked in unison he realized the speaker was talking about two of those who had not been able to get out of the water.

Shocked into silence, the two watched blood stain the muddy Rio Grande waters a darker color. When dying shots of the last gun reverberated, the Mescalero Apache band from the San Francisco Mountains had only two future warriors left. Eleven bodies swayed among bending cattails. Young Eagle knew when old Many Waters drowned, his body sank and water creatures tore his flesh.

"Come, Dull Knife, the killers ride away. We must find those who have lost sons and tell them what happened.”

The three gunslingers made as if to ride northward toward their destination. Drifter halted in a sandy swale and pulled his black hat lower on his sun-browned forehead. The red bandana around his neck fluttered in the soft breeze. “Men,” he said, “smell that Apache food cookin’?”

Cherokee Joe had drifted into New Mexico Territory from Indian country in eastern Indian Territory. An Indian mother who did not know what drifting white man fathered him had raised him. She had sold herself. His blind left eye was covered with a black patch. Long, black Cherokee-hair hung from under an uncreased black hat. He was wanted for rape and murder.

The killer growled, “Rather die of starvation than eat Apache cookin’.”

“Ain’t cookin’ I’m after.”

“Think they might have gold?”

“Know where there is Apache women, there is bound to be a place for a man to get some screwin’ with a little fight.”

Cherokee Joe growled, “No tellin’ what these squaws’ll give a man besides some pussy.”

“Not like other Indians,” Drifter said. “Women are clean as nuns. Men’ll be gone. We got rid of the young warriors, so it’s all free until supper time when their bucks come home.”

CHAPTER FOUR
When the first sounds of shots cracked toward the river, cook fires hissed in the rancheria. Squaws grabbed containers of water and threw it on the meager flames they cooked over. “Our youths are close to where strange guns fire.” Young Eagle’s mother hissed her words.

Other women in the rancheria also frantically put out their fires. Grabbing their children, they scattered like wild quail. When the three killers rode through where the camp had been, there was nothing but a few steaming ashes and some crude brush shelters to show humans had ever inhabited the sandy creek bank.

Cherokee Joe and the third partner, Scar Face, a tall man with a vivid unhealed wound on his right cheek, searched carefully. Not one whimpering papoose or one moccasin print told where the squaws with their children had gone.

Drifter took time enough to roll tobacco in thin paper. Striking a large sulfur match, he blew a thin, blue stream of smoke. “Guess we’d better get out of here,” he told his two hired killers. “These ‘Paches goin’ to be mad as hell when they find out what we did to their young bucks.”*

Before the shots started, forty Apache hunters had hid behind bushes to kill a small herd of deer. Before sundown the animals usually started feeding on bunchgrass growing in open areas. Hearing the first shots, the hunters silently faded into lengthening shadows cast by a setting sun.

Young Eagle slowly came from his hiding place when he realized his father was crouched in a clump of willows.

“How many are dead?” his father, Lobo, asked quietly. The father was a man of some thirty years. Married at seventeen, before he was eighteen, the lithe but strong Canero had borne Young Eagle. Now, four other children filled his wickiup.

“Eleven. Only Dull Knife and I live.”

“I am glad you are alive, my son. Could you see the killers?”

Young Eagle didn’t hesitate. “They were the same men who killed the lawyer and his boy.”

“Hired killers,” the father said softly. “Come. We need to find your mother.”

The warriors split into two groups. Those who remained behind waded into the chilly river water to search for the bodies floating among the cattails. The other members of the party went to find the women and small children. Manulieto was among those who returned to the rancheria to look for the small children.
The chief gave the call of a wolf. A mourning dove answered from a dry wash. The cry of a wildcat brought more doves calls from hiding places. An eagle shrieked before women and children began drifting into the meeting place under a giant cottonwood tree. Even though some of the women led mules, they made no noise when they walked among fallen leaves.
Darkness fell before braves bore eight dead bodies and placed them among women making strange grieving sounds only Apache women could make. In spite of their grief, they finished their cooking. Small children demanded attention.
“Bury the dead,” Manulieto’s youngest son lay among the corpses. The Mescalero chief was in spite of his years as straight as an arrow. He kept his black hair cropped above his shoulders. Once a fierce warrior, time had mellowed him. The members of his band still obeyed his orders because he could strike out like the wild cat did before it became a pelt that hung down from his head onto his back.
A warrior spoke from the darkness. “How many of us need to go after the murderers?”
Manulieto’s answer drew angry questions from his followers. “We cross the river and go to Carson. Only he can help us survive.”
Only Wolf spoke before the burial party started piling rocks on shallow graves. “Always before we have avenged our dead.”
The dreaded call of an owl penetrated the scene lit by a late rising moon. Finally the children slept. The grieving women grew quieter with their keening for their dead.
Manulieto finally spoke. “Gather around,” he told the men. “We will decide what to do next.”
Dull Knife’s father, Loco, spoke first. The name meaning, Crazy, had been given the man when he was a youth who killed five Bluecoats for killing his father. “Let me take ten men and avenge our young warriors’ deaths.”
Manulieto knew he must answer wisely. He ruled only until his followers no longer accepted his decisions. Mescalero Apaches were bound to follow no leader because of his birth. Leadership was bought by wisdom and bravery on both the war path and on the dangerous paths through a cruel and unforgiving wilderness of rocks, cacti, and other cruel desert plants that harbored scorpion, rattlesnake, and very little drinking water. One misjudgment and many would rot under a burning sun.
“People of the mountains, since our escape from Bosque Redondo, we have avoided the white man and his devious ways of killing us. Some years we hid along the cool streams of the mountains white men call, Davis. When the Great White Father sent black soldiers with hair like the buffalo to guard the trail through our mountains, we came again to our beloved New Mexico mountains. Now we are once again driven from our homes.”
“And what is your decision?” Loco cut off the long speech that seemed to lead no where.
Manulieto, a name given him many years ago by a rich Mexican family who bought him from marauding Navahos, answered after deep thought. “We must reach Carson before white men kill more of us. If we spend our time and energy avenging the death of our loved ones, we will be slaughtered until there are no more of us to kill.”
“After we reach Santa Fe, then we will search out the three white men who killed our sons.” Young Eagle listened to his father’s vow of revenge. Those who lay under cold Mother Earth were his friends.


CHAPTER FIVE
Liberty, Mississippi shortly before the Civil War was over.
“While others visited real frightened like, we heard horse hooves coming down the lane. As they drew nearer, those of us who possessed guns stood up and prepared to defend ourselves.
“Don’t anyone shoot,” father said. “It may be James.”
By dim lantern light we could see he was right. James and his three brothers rode down the slave road on lathered horses. We could hear the animals breathing loudly in the darkness.
Father stood up carrying Sarah Jane’s sleeping body in his strong arms. “Anything going on, James?” he asked.
“Plenty, sir,” James answered. “A bunch of Confederates tried to stop those Yankees going to Baton Rogue. They’re having a regular war.”
We stood and listened. Rumbling of artillery pieces grew closer while small arms crackled dimly across the distance. “We going to fight, sir?” James asked.
“Probably no use,” father said with a resigned air. “Late as it is, the battle should be over before we can ride that far.”
“What do you want us to do?” James asked.
“Let’s all get some sleep. We’ll see what develops tomorrow morning.”
James spoke in a troubled voice. “Colonel Wilkerson, we just wanted you to know.”
“Know what?” father asked.
“South loses this War, my brothers and I are going to go west and fight Indians for the North.”
“Any idea where you will go?”
“Yankees are planning on sending a Black regiment to Fort Davis in Texas.”
“Most sorry to see you go,” father told his blood kin.

FORT DAVIS, TEXAS 1878
The Fort Davis, Texas, enlisted men’s hospital had only one available bed. Auburn hair streaked with gray, Nurse Mary Halset went over the list of patients. Surgeon-in-Charge, Col. J.V. Lauderdale, a crisp Northern Civil War surgeon with a salt and pepper beard had asked her to discharge any men she thought were malingering.
She had protested. “Doctor, I have no way of knowing how these men feel. Some men who act the sickest may be well, while some who appear to be better, may be the sickest.”
“That is true, Nurse Halset, but when the wounded come in from fighting Apaches, we need more than one bed.”
“I will do my best,” she promised.
The list of Black men lying with light sheets covering their sick bodies was before her. Private Fred H. Blackburn was sick with malaria. Corporal Neal H. Ferrel had his broken leg in traction. The man next to him had suffered sunstroke last week. Perhaps she could discharge him. Still, she thought, he looked awfully peaked when he went to the latrine.
The Alabama private, Jim Whiteside, now there could be a goldbricker. He came in with pains in his leg. He limped awfully badly when he was under her observation, but twice she had caught him walking pretty straight without any signs of a limp.
The mulatto from New Orleans, Tim Birdseed, was supposed to have strained his back making adobe building blocks. True, he bent way over but most of the men tromping straw into mud to make sun baked adobes could show a lot of pain after an hour or two. This hot Texas sun took a lot out of man and beast.
She had done volunteer work during the battle of Bull Run. At first men with limbs mangled and blown away had almost caused her to go back to her comfortable country home in Maryland. Hadn’t been her young husband was in Tennessee fighting rebels, she would have left. Even after a miniè ball stopped his heart, she stayed on with her “boys in blue.”
She snapped her memory shut concerning her late husband and went on with her job of looking for men well enough to discharge. If only they would come to her and say, “Nurse, I’m well enough to go back to duty.” She knew this was the only chance these men had of sleeping on anything but a blanket thrown over a mattress filled with corn shucks or straw. Halset
Doctor Lauderdale called out, “Nurse Halset, the ambulance is coming. A messenger said four enlisted men and Lieutenant Lewis are badly wounded. I am going to help.”
Hoping she would not make the wrong decisions, she started to notify the ones she thought well enough to discharge. The doors at both ends of the ward were open to let in fresh air and sunshine. A gray streak came through the west door. “My gracious, what is it?” she asked in an excited voice she hardly ever used. She had been taught medical people should never show strong emotions around sick people. This was an exception.
The streak turned into a large gray wolf that grabbed Corporal Feral’s cast and would not turn loose. The bucket hanging from a pulley to keep his fracture in place threatened to spill the heavy rocks.
Standing in stark terror, she could do nothing but scream, “It’s a wolf! Somebody come and shoot this wolf!”
The frothing animal turned loose of its victim’s leg and made a snarling stand ready for another charge. Its muzzle upturned in a vicious leer that exposed its fangs, its bloodshot eyes let those who watched in horror know it was rabid. The mulatto leaped out of his bed. Straight as an arrow, his sore back no longer bothering him, he and Private Whiteside and three other men with their gowns exposing their backsides made for the west door.
Sergeant James Wilkerson, flanked by his three brothers, with an Army pistol in their hands ran in the east door. Without aiming, he ran up to the charging, snarling animal and pulled the trigger. In rapid succession, he fired twice more. The bleeding brute lay in a pool of its own blood.
In control of herself, the nurse ran to straighten the askew weight. Corporal Feral had passed out from pain. After she had checked the broken leg, she said, “Thank you, Sergeant Wilkerson.”
The doctor appeared with a party of stretcher-bearers. “You have any beds ready, Nurse Halset?”
“Doctor, I and this wolf just cleared out some men well enough to run.”
The doctor’s eyes fell on the wolf that was gasping its last breath. His startled gaze turned to the sergeant who still stood with a smoking pistol in his hand. “I never saw such a thing before. Sergeant Wilkerson, you could have killed a patient or two.”
“Sir,” the sergeant said, “I never miss.”
Nurse Halset chuckled. “Never before did I have a wolf decide which patients were well.”
“Pardon me, mam,” the black sergeant said, “when I get through with them goldbrickers, they’ll know better than lay up here in bed.”*
The doctor looked up from the wounded patient he was working on. “Perhaps it would be best to forget about this episode. Not many hospitals have a rabid wolf to heal men.”
“I’ll make dem shake a leg in that mud. Next time they won’t fake sickness to keep from fighting Apaches, Sur.”
“The fighting hard?” The doctor did not say so, but he was certain the arrow protruding from Lieutenant Lewis’ swollen leg had been dipped in rattlesnake poison. The venom was gathered from a deer liver the Apaches forced snakes to strike.
“Apaches were trying to cross the Rio Grande with a herd of cattle they stole.”
“White men and Mexicans drive stolen animals across the border all the time.”
“Doctor, these Apaches are hostiles. No matter how you look at them red devils, settlers will never be safe until they’re six feet under.”
The doctor knew there was no use arguing. “It has been their land for generation.” He shrugged his shoulders, “Perhaps you are right. I will write a commendation in your record about the wolf. I will give you my gratitude where it will remain a part of your permanent Army history.”
When the sergeant and his two brothers turned to leave, the doctor called from the room where he was removing the arrow, “Please escort Mrs. Lewis to the hospital to see her husband. Don’t upset her anymore than you have to.”









CHAPTER SIX
Manulieto led them across the Rio Grande. Not letting the grieving people rest, he hurried them west toward where the road from Navaho land snaked across the mesa land to Albuquerque.
“Why do we go this way?” Loco questioned. “Besides wagons hauling goods to and from the vast Navaho Reservation, Pony Solders constantly look for Reservation jumpers.”
Manulieto’s answer sounded above the clopping of horse hooves. “Pony Solders will take us safely to Carson. He is a big officer in the United States Army.”
Young Eagle and Dull Knife rode scouting the left flank. They knew they must ever be on the alert for food as well as danger from other Indians and white men. There would be no safety until they were under Carson’s protection.
The unbelief of what had happened to the band of Apache youths still gnawed on Young Eagle’s mind. He knew he would someday succeed Manulieto. There were no other young warriors but Dull Knife. Unless he could build up an army from Western Apaches and captured Mexican and White-eye boys, he knew it would be a long time before there would be enough warriors from this band to lead.
Young Eagle topped a sage-covered ridge. To the east lay the silver ribbon of the Rio Grande. Since the killing they had worked farther west to avoid travelers keeping close to the river. Where they were, there was nothing but a few arroyos where water collected after rains. Since it had been a wet fall they were having no trouble keeping themselves and their animals from getting thirsty.
The youth hearing his father and Manulieto arguing behind a salt cedar started to slip past. What adults argued about was none of his business. “We are cold. Never before have we stayed this far north when snow falls from the sky. Our food runs out.”
Manulieto asked gently, “What would you have me do?”
“Go to the pueblo called ‘Àcoma and steal blankets,” he heard his father say. .
“And have the soldiers down on us?” Young Eagle understood why Manulieto was called an old woman.
He heard his father continue to argue. “We can raid the pueblo and go into the mountains and gather pinyon nuts until things settle down.”
“Our horses and pack animals are tired,” Manulieto said.
“Then when we come to the Montoya ranch we will rob many horses.” Young Eagle wondered why his father was not chief.
“The ranch has many men working for it.”
“How would you know?” Lobo asked.
“When they took me from my father and mother, many times I went with my captors, the Navahos, to this place. Finally they traded me to Señor Montoya for one yearling steer.”
“Perhaps some of the Mexican blood seeped into your veins and made you a coward.” Young Eagle drew in his breath. Manulieto could order other warriors to kill his father because of this insult.
Instead of fighting, Manulieto resigned to peaceful ways. “Perhaps you are right. I am an old man full of long and bitter ways. Tomorrow we steal horses. Two days afterwards we steal many blankets and food from those who live on top of the giant rock.”
Young Eagle was glad his people were again becoming a tribe of warriors. Too long they had sat by their fires hiding from the White-eyes. They were going to raid Mexican corrals for horses and pueblos for food and clothing. Dull Knife rode up beside his companion.
“Father says we are going to take many horses tonight,” Dull Knife said softly in case others listened.
“It is true,” Young Eagle reported. “I heard father and Manulieto discuss the manner.”
Dull Knife had more information. “Father said the other warriors voted in secret. Your father was the one chosen to tell our chief.”
Before dark they stopped in a small valley with only one passable exit. A steep cliff to the northwest made it impossible for anyone to leave or enter this secret hiding place.
The squaws soberly went about their cooking. Many time before they had seen their warriors ride away and return without all the men.
Apache Rose hurried about her tasks. Although she was not old enough to go and talk to Young Eagle, she wanted to tell him to be careful. Mexicans prized their horses greatly.
Warm aromas of food told hungry men their evening meal was ready. Crouched around small flickering campfires, the men hastily ate fried bread sopped in brown gravy from antelope meat the women had cooked for more than an hour.
Young Eagle’s mother asked, “Must you two eat so fast? Let the meat stay in your mouths long enough to let it mix with your juices.”
Young Eagle’s father growled, “We ride as soon as the one sent to spy out Montoyo’s ranch returns.”
“Montoyo’s ranch?” she asked. “Where is it?”
“We will have to ride until the moon reaches half way into the sky.”
“Are there many horses at this Mexican’s ranch?” she asked. Anxiety rose in her throat. She had stayed in the Rancheria and waited many times for her husband to return from horse stealing. While she had waited she had listened to sounds the wind made. Each time a leaf rustled she had thought it was her husband returning with the other men of the tribe. Usually when he had finally returned, he had to awaken her from a fitful sleep.
“There will be enough horses for all of us to ride,” he assured her.
She let the sparking campfire eat a small cedar stick before she asked the question she dreaded to ask. “Will you take Young Eagle?”
“And Dull Knife,” he answered.
“They are too young for such dangerous jobs.”
“They are not too young to watch the horses,” he said.
“They are the only young men left us,” she argued. She kept hoping she could argue long enough to weary her husband into letting her keep her son home with her.
Young Eagle was relieved to hear his father close the argument. “Our cause is lost if our young men turn into cowards unable to do anything but sit by the fire. Surely you would not want them to think of themselves as young girls instead of brave warriors.”
The mother knew she had lost her argument. Effeminate young males could turn into homosexuals the other warriors would kill.
“Take them,” she said tiredly. There was no use for her to argue any longer. Ordinarily she would have been glad for her son to be considered wise and brave enough to help the grown men. That was before Bosque Redondo captivity had made her people weak with starvation and fear.
The braves prepared for war. Drinking fermented mescal to make them bold, they went over battle plans. Since there was little danger of being seen because of protecting cliffs younger warriors did a fierce war dance around a blazing bonfire. Young Eagle listened to his father question the spy who had come in tired and hungry. “Can we tear down the corral?” he asked.
The spy hungrily ate hot beans and antelope meat while he reported. “No,” he said, “Montoya has had his workers place rocks in with the adobe. It is impossible to break through with what tools we have.”
Manulieto showed why he was chief. “Then we shall have a man sneak inside when the gate is closed. He can open it when he hears a nighthawk speak three times.”
Loco asked the next question. “How many horses does this Montoya corral each night?”
The spy wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Many,” he boasted. “Perhaps a hundred.”
Manulieto thought back through a haze of memories to when he was a slave on this large hacienda. “There is a hill with many trees about a mile from the horse corral.”
The spy remembered what he had seen. “Less than a mile, Perhaps a quarter of a mile. In fact there are two hills that make a narrow valley where the horses are trapped each night for riding next day.”
“This Montoya has many workers at the ranch?” the chief asked.
“Many. They have just brought the cattle from summer pasture in western mountains. They brand and castrate calves they missed last spring before they went to the Datils.”
“Then we will have to strike fast and leave before the vaqueros can get sleep out of their heads.”
“It will help some that they celebrate from the bottle every night.”
Looking up from the council of war, Manulieto ordered the warriors who carried on the war dance. “No more mescal. It will make you slow-witted.”
“It will make us brave without fear,” a warrior who had shed all of his clothing except a breechcloth said. This warrior like the other younger braves did not like their chief’s old man caution.
Manuelito did not argue. “Put away the mescal.”
While the war party rested until time to leave for the raid, Young Eagle and Dull Knife shared their blankets on a rock ledge. Dull Knife soon snored, but Young Eagle couldn't sleep.
On the canyon wall, a coyote stuck its muzzle into the air and set off a chorus of coyote calls that were answered from the surrounding rocky hills. A moon split the horizon, and stars became pale from the greater light. When the youth drifted off to sleep, a hand shook his shoulder.
“Come,” his father said, “we must make it to where we can hide in the hills before sunup.”
By light from the moon, Young Eagle and Dull Knife followed the warriors. The youths rode through a magical world. Small hills with their lookouts of yucca plants stood guarding the vast domain of grass stretching into infinity.
As they rode, Young Eagle saw a vision. Son of the Water led long lines of Apache warriors stretching from horizon to horizon. Braves of all Indian nations sat their horses ready to charge and drive the white invaders from the magical world of his native Americans.
Young Eagle saw the heroes of the Apache Nation whipping their horses into action. Cochise and Magnus Colorado, the two old dead warriors were leading. Behind them came the modern leaders. Geronimo led his Chircahuas, Tontos, Gilas and other small bands of Western Apaches. Victorio came with his Mimbres, the Copper Mine Apaches, from southwestern New Mexico mountains where White-eyes mined copper. From Mexico came the Mexican Apaches.
On that night Young Eagle watched, the sagebrush-covered basin was covered with Apaches leading their warriors. Following them, all Indians from the North, South, West and East, from the Atlantic to the Pacific and from Canada to Mexico, a mighty horde of red men united.
Manulieto’s voice brought him out of his trance. Young Eagle knew he had seen the vision. Without peyote or mescal, he had seen the vision every Apache youth sought to turn him from a novice into a warrior ready to join in the attack. After they returned to the rancheria and he had a chance to tell his vision, instead of waiting and watching the horses like he and Dull Knife would do soon, he would take part in the raid.
“Watch the horses,” the chief ordered the two youths. “In the dark that comes before dawn, we will hide where a point of trees comes closer to the horse corral.”
Young Eagle and Dull Knife watched their people silently move on foot through tall, dry grass. Before the older men had gone a hundred feet, they disappeared from sight.
Although their charges were tied to trees and strong shrubs, neither youth dared sleep during the long day. If anything happened to the warriors’ mounts, the Mescaleros in Manulieto’s band could be on foot in a lonely hostile country. If they failed to capture the Mexicans’ horses, he and his people left on foot would be hunted down like mangy coyotes.


CHAPTER SEVEN
Before a pink haze announced the rising sun, Manulieto led his warriors into hiding. From behind the squaw bush he hid behind, he could see the giant house built of sandstone. A feeling of anger at the way he had been treated while he was a slave rose up within him. In this hacienda, the chief remembered Montoya yielding a leather whip until blood poured down his Indian slaves’ bare backs. Always the slaves he beat were Indians.
And still there were the bells. Everything on this horrible ranch was done by bells. Their peals went out at sunrise, before the noon meal, and when evening turned into night. Crystal clear, the bells’ tones echoed among the surrounding hills.
Chill of night became bearable under a fall sun. Smoke drifted lazily into the light wind and blew smells of cooking food to where Manulieto and his men chewed on strips of dry jerky. The waiting warriors couldn't risk even the smallest cooking fire.
A dog approached. Manulieto’s heart rose into his mouth until he coaxed the cur to take a small piece of dry venison. With a few words and a few pats on the head, the dog was his friend. The animal turned up a hind leg and marked a bush. No more dogs came.
Men dressed for riding came from the huge hacienda and went to the corral to catch mounts for the day. Close to twenty mounted and rode to bring the spotted longhorn cattle from large wheat pastures south of the horse pen.
Two men took the remaining horses and drove them to pasture. Because bands of Navahos and Apaches roamed the wild country, Since all loose horses were fair catches for both tribes to take back to their reservations Manulieto knew Montoya and his riders would keep close watch on their spare mounts. Several times Young Eagle had to stifle the horses to keep them from neighing welcomes to the herds that fed below the hill covered with boulders and brush. Twice, both youths caught themselves asleep at the same time.
“This’ll never do,” Dull Knife said. “If we lose the horses, we will never become warriors.”
“Our people could loose their lives because of our carelessness.” While Young Eagle thought more of the consequences in regards to the whole band of Apaches who followed Manulieto, Dull Knife thought more of what would happen to him personally.
When the sun was directly overhead, the bell called riders to come for their noon meal. Only those who guarded the horses stayed on duty. Manuelito and his braves watched the Mexicans eat large plates full of food before they got out of the fall wind and slept.
Those hidden on the bushy hill didn't let the savory smells of food detract them from their vigilance. Braves knew if Montoyo's riders discovered them, they would fight. All braves kept their Winchester repeating rifles in easy reach. Comancheros had armed Manulieto and his band well.
When the siesta was over, riders went about their tasks. Manulieto and his men watched five vaqueros throw and doctor a bull with an infected cut on his hindquarter. Six men dehorned a herd of steers ready for market. Manulieto whispered, “Most buyers want animals without horns.”

The holding pen grew foggy from a cloud of dust filling the air. Animal smells rose to where the napping Apaches lay dulled by inactivity.

Manulieto whispered, “They start to bring the horses in for the night.”

Lobo snaked silently toward where a horse from the herd stood close to an outcropping of rocks. Weaving from one cover to another, the warrior skillfully grabbed hold of the animal’s neck. With his free hand, he cut off a frightened neigh. The quieted horse was mesmerized.

Mexican riders started easing the horses toward the giant corral. Lobo kept himself hidden by hanging onto the mount’s side. No one saw him borne into the enclosure. When the massive corral gate swung to and a giant wooden bar dropped into place from the inside, the vaqueros did not know a thief hid among the horses.

Birds began their late evening ritual of making noises peculiar to their kind before sleep closed their eyes. Attune with nature, the band of Apaches slowly drew closer to the horses they intended to steal. Blending into silhouettes of trees, rocks, and bushes, each warrior said a prayer for success for their undertaking. Stealing horses from the hated Mexicans was a sacred duty Ussen expected them to carry out.

Quietness rested over the Montoya ranch. Two nightriders at various times circled the horse corral. Each journey took the two to different areas. Neither of them noticed anything array until Apache hunting knives stuck between their ribs into their quivering hearts.

Three times Loco made the sound of a nighthawk. Lobo answered with a horse neigh. The giant wooden bar on the inside keeping the massive gate closed raised silently.

Manulieto and his men poured into the corral. Finding their way to the back, each skillfully mounted in such a way the horses made no noises. Lobo swung the gate open before he leaped on the nearest horse. Leading the charge of riderless animals, he raced the wind. The mounted Apaches in the rear carefully hazed the herd into a stampede.

Young Eagle and Dull Knife heard the nighthawk cry. “It is time,” Young Eagle said quietly.

Hazing the Indian ponies before the running herd, the two youths led their charges toward the rancheria where the women awaited their return. Young Eagle knew that when he told his vision, he would soon be Fierce Eagle!



CHAPTER EIGHT
Young Eagle could hardly wait to become Fierce Eagle.

The fledgling warrior halted his spotted pony long enough to watch his people proudly riding along the sandy bed of a dry wash. Even though the travelers were almost a mile away, he recognized Apache Rose riding a white pony stolen from the spread two days ago. In fact, all of his people rode fresh mounts.

“It is good to have enough horses to go around.” Dull Knife saw his friend watching. “Is there someone in particular you stare at so hard?”

Fierce Eagle felt his loin cloth rise in anticipation as he watched the rider on the white pony. “I only watch the once bright blanket on the white pony.”

Dull Knife laughed. “A blanket doesn't make your passion raise your covering. You watch your woman even as I watch her recently widowed companion.”

“We will grow many new warriors from our seed,” Young Eagle predicted. “Soon the Mescalero Apaches will grow into a mighty nation. We will trade our bows and arrows for more Comanchero rifles and drive the white men from our land.”

“Father says one named Geronimo even now gathers an army at San Carlos. Soon he will grow strong on White-eye and Mexican horses. He will build up an army from captured children strong enough to lead his people from their reservation prison.”

After Dull Knife spoke, Young Eagle planned. “While this warrior of the Chirichuahua Apaches raids from Arizona into Mexico, Victorio from the Copper Mine Apaches goes from New Mexico to El Paso to stop stagecoaches. Soon the Mescaleros will go through the Davis Mountains into Texas and plunder vehicles traveling from the White-eyes' San Antonio to El Paso.”

“Perhaps there will be even a little time to pleasure ourselves with the white women.”

Young Eagle laughed. “Father says these strange women who ride the stagecoaches cover their privates with undergarments made from silk.”

“Did your father say how he knew?”

Young Eagle laughed. “Father rode with the Mescaleros before they were led by an old woman who fears his own shadow. In those days the People didn’t run to Carson for protection from their enemies.”
Dull Knife let his mind dwell on white and Mexican women who rode in stagecoaches. “Father speaks of strange-looking women who wore long dresses over hoops made from whale bones. Their dresses made them look like they had no legs or feet.”
“Father also told me of such odd ways of dressing. When these women were made to shed their long dresses, they had the place men seek for pleasure. After he and his friends enjoyed themselves they sometimes cut off the women’s parts to decorate their spears.”
Both youths rode in silence while their mounts struggled up a steep gravel-covered hill. From their gain in altitude they could see the Rio Grande flowing like a silver thread. The Sandia Mountains towered over the mesa land that rose to provide a gentle slope to meet the west cliff reaching up to the mountaintop.
Dull Knife dared not break the silence that reached back into the centuries when this land knew no man. Young Eagle contemplated sand, gravel, and small trees on an arid wilderness that stretched out before him into infinity. Ussen, creator of earth and sky, spoke to the youth. “Young Eagle, all this you see before you is part of my creation. When the earth was young and volcanoes sent their smoke into the new sky, I made animals for my people to hunt. Buffaloes roamed across the prairies in herds so large it was seldom impossible to find my land free of the shaggy beasts. Meat eaters of both the animal and bird families fed on the weak and dying.”
Young Eagle kept silent. Ussen’s voice would stop if other thoughts came into his mind.
“I made my People, the Apaches, to take care of the giant herds of buffaloes. For centuries they fed on the meat, clothed and lived under hides. First came the Spaniards who gave horses to the People. Comanches from the north raided Apache country and caused my People to flee to the western mountains. Then came white men from the east who killed the buffalo until there are only a few of the shaggy creatures left.”
“I know you speak truth, Ussen. Is there anything the People can do about it?”
Ussen’s voice again filled the young warrior’s ears. “Soon I will call on you to lead my People forward into greatness. You will help lead a band of Apache warriors back to your birthplace in the Davis Mountains. After you reach the spot where your mother buried the afterbirth, you shall start driving the White-eyes out of my sacred mountain. Again the Davis Mountain Mescaleros shall take care of the buffalo herds.”
“How?” Young Eagle’s voice was filled with awe.
“You and your braves will protect the buffalo from white men. You will make sure wolves and bears do not become so many that they kill more than their share of the animals I put here for the Apaches.”
“Must we follow Manulieto?” he asked.
“My son, go with your leader. I will cause the warriors to turn from his leadership. They will follow you and your father back to the land ruled over by the Davis Mountains. Hide yourselves where wild roses grow until Victoria of the Copper Mine Apaches sends Nada to tell you when to attack.”
“There are few of us, who can fight,” Young Eagle pointed out.
Ussen caused the sun to break through a dark cloud. “When the time comes, there will be sufficient warriors.”

CHAPTER NINE
Manulieto led his band westward. Nights grew cooler. “There will be a killing frost soon,” Young Eagle told Dull Knife. They crossed a sandy draw east of the rich pueblo of the ‘Àcomas. In the distance, Mount Taylor, sacred mountain of the Navahos, reared its snow-covered peak into the sky.
Dull Knife guided his spotted pony around a large boulder. “Father says tomorrow we will warm ourselves under warm ‘Ácoma blankets.”
“We trade off what little goods we have?”
“No, Young Eagle. Once again we become Apaches. What we want and need, we will take from this tribe of old women who grow lazy and fat. They do women’s work instead of following the trail of deer and elk. They eat white mens' cows and raise fields of plants for food. Ussen doesn’t bless those who do such things.”
“They don’t follow the sacred ways of our people,” Young Eagle agreed. “Braves should hunt, fight, and steal. Their work is to take horses and cattle from White-eyes and Mexicans. It is braves’ work to chase freight wagons and stagecoaches away from the hunting grounds of our people. Constant rumbling of wheels and cursing of drivers scares away all game. Our people starve.”
Manulieto followed two scouts to a deep arroyo protected by steep sandstone cliffs. Quickly they brought the women, children and animals into this natural fortress.
While women and children built fires and prepared food for the evening meal, Manulieto met with the warriors. Although they knew to keep silent because of their youth, both Young Eagle and Dull Knife sat in council. With much conversation, the braves waited for their chief to speak.
Manuelito stood before them. Their accepted leader for many moons, the old man full of many battles, raised his gnarled hand for quietness. His bared chest showed the scars of numerous encounters with the enemies of his people.
Lit by flickering flames, he spoke. “Men of the Mescalero Apaches, your leaders have asked me to lead a raid on the pueblo of the Acomas. You should consider if this act of violence against those the Bluecoat pony soldiers protect will cause the great Carson to turn against us.”
Dull Knife whispered to his friend, “He is truly an old woman to dare think such thoughts.”
Loco and Lobo turned their disapproving eyes on their two sons. “We do need warm blankets and more food for the coming winter,” Manuelito said. He made no indication he had heard the two unruly youths. “We have little to trade for these necessities of life.”
Young Eagle glowed with pride when Lobo spoke. “Let us take what we need from these men who act like women.” His words were met with sounds of approval.
“We will need a place to hide until the Bluecoats no longer search for us.”
Loco answered without hesitation. “Pony soldiers forget fast. They do not know one band of Indians from another. The frost will open pinyon burrs on Mount Taylor. While we hide, our women and children can gather brown nuts for winter.”
“Navahos claim Mount Taylor for their use,” Manuelito reminded the speaker.
“We have never been afraid of dog eaters,” Lobo growled. Again the other braves made sounds of approval. Manuelito led his raiding party to a place where darkness prevented Acomas from seeing them.
The chief counseled with Lobo and Loco. “Take ten men and reach the top. Kill the guards so the rest of us can climb the trail.”
“I would like to take Loco’s and my son with us,” Lobo said.
“They are young. We need them to sire more children.”
“Both of them are very agile in climbing cliffs. I need them to reach the top and throw ropes for us to climb.”
“There is a trail,” the chief said as though he explained to children.
“Guards watch constantly.”
“Tell Young Eagle and Dull Knife to be careful,” Manuelito warned. “In the old days I would have not hesitated to sacrifice two young warriors. Braves call me an old woman, but I must act with caution. After Bluecoats stopped fighting their Southern brothers, Davis Mountain Apaches grow few in number.”
Lobo kept his voice low. “The success of this mission depends on you two. When you get to the top where the Acomas keep turkeys, gobble as I have taught you.”
Lobo and Loco watched their sons approach the giant rock fortress. Both men wanted to run after the two young warriors and bring them back. Only because their people might suffer cold and hunger did the fathers let the young men go.
Young Eagle led Dull Knife up the rock wall below where Acoma rested far above the arid mesa. He knew the pueblo had survived because its inhabitants had built the city in such an inaccessible place. From the time of Spanish Conquistadors, wild tales of gold treasures hidden in this pueblo reaching into the sky brought treasure hunters. Young Eagle knew the treasure they sought was blankets to keep them warm and food to keep them from starving.
Young Eagle stuck his hand into a crevice. Pain greater than a thousand cactus spine went through his body. Drawing his hand to him, he examined it in the dim light cast by a thousand stars illuminating the darkness.
“Brother scorpions,” the sufferer said, “had you been rattlesnakes, then I would grow so weak I couldn’t go farther.”
“What keeps you?” Dull Knife whispered.
“Scorpions.”
“Can you go on?”
Young Eagle answered, “As soon as I can scrape these things off my hand.”
They climbed into the darkness of shadows. Outcroppings kept all light from where the two almost nude warriors struggled to reach the mesa’s top.

Young Eagle fought to keep from passing out. Although scorpion bites seldom killed, he knew bad spirits caused sickness. But for his Apache teaching and training, he would have quit climbing. Pieces of stories told around campfires welled up inside his head and gave him strength.
Once he remembered he had seen a coyote caught in a White-eye’s trap chew off his leg in order to escape. The crippled animal had struggled through deep snow to its lair in a cave. Crippled, it had survived. Young Eagle knew he would make it to the top. His people depended on him.
Dull Knife reached the top first. Finding solid footing on a rock, he flung himself onto the hard surface. After he caught his breath, he spoke softly.
“Can you make it, Young Eagle?”
“I am sick and weak.”
“Give me your hand,” Dull Knife hissed into the darkness.
Twice the sick climber slipped. Worried noise might bring guards, he was able to keep small rocks from cascading to the bottom by directing his feet to a firmer perch. On the third try, Young Eagle felt his body scrape over the rim rock. Sick enough to think he was dying, he fought to keep the darkness in his brain from enveloping him completely.
Dull Knife disappeared into the darkness. His sick companion tried to make the turkey gobble. A dry throat prevented him from uttering a sound.
“Our people come,” Dull Knife whispered from the shadow of a shed built of stacked stones held strongly together by plastered mud dried by years of being under a searing summer sun.
“You didn't make the turkey call.”
Dull Knife explained, “Only two guards watched the entrance. Two thrusts of my hunting knife and they lay dead.”
“How will the others know?” Young Eagle asked.
“Two dead bodies dropping over the cliff should tell them to use the trail.”
“Why did you disobey?”
“You need attention,” Dull Knife said kindly. “There is a cistern in back oif this shed. I’m going to get you some water.”
Without a sound, Young Eagle knew his friend had returned with a clay pot full of cold water. “Drink,” he told him.
Young Eagle feebly held the rim to his mouth. Dull Knife sloshed water onto his sick friend’s face. Revived by the coolness, he struggled to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Dull Knife asked.
“We must guard the trail entrance so the Acomas will not surprise our men.”
“They sleep.”
“They may awaken to change the guards. Besides, the old and the young seldom sleep soundly,” Young Eagle said.
Dull Knife supported his sick friend to where the trail entered between two giant boulders that cast dark shadows on the trail. Dull Knife continued the conversation in a whisper. “It would be better if these Indians who act like women lived in tepees and brush huts like we do.”
“Why? These adobe walls with permanent roofs are much more comfortable,” Young Eagle said.
“Our people in their sleep can hear noises from outside their sleeping quarters. These houses built on top of each other are too thick. They can hear nothing.”
“You are very observant,” Young Eagle told the friend who he had mixed blood with in a ritual of brotherhood. “We who civilized men call, ‘Wild Indians,’ are like the wild animals. If we live, we must constantly be on the alert.”
Dull Knife kept talking to keep his sick friend from falling asleep. “Sometimes I wish we could rest in peace. Like these Pueblos, I wish the Apaches could feel secure enough to sleep behind closed doors.”
Young Eagle answered, “Only when Apaches are in the grave, or in prison, can they do such a thing. There are no holes deep enough for our people to get into and be safe.”
“Not even on White-eyes’ reservations?”
“Father says especially not on reservations. At Bosque Redondo, when soldiers were not molesting our people, Apaches and Navahos killed each other.”
Young Eagle stopped speaking. It was time to let night spirits tell him what was happening. He had to struggle to tell noises the scorpion told in his head from those made from outside.
At first all the two listeners could hear were sounds of the night. A low wind blew across the rock plateau sticking up into the myriad of night stars. A coyote yipped, and many answered one at a time then a chorus filled the distance. The darkness filled with a crescendo of voices that shattered the stillness.
“The listener can never tell where the coyote’s voice comes from,” Dull Knife commented in a whisper. “He is a trickster. Sometimes when he is far away, he sounds very close. Sometimes when he is very close, he sounds far away.”
“His enemies never know where to find him,” Young Eagle added. “Because of his trickery, White-eyes will have a hard time eliminating him. So it is with the Apaches. If we can outsmart the Pony Soldiers, we can live free.” The speaker spoke to keep the harshness of the voices in his sick brain from robbing him of all reason.
“Young Eagle, the Pony Soldiers hate us worse than they do the coyote.”
Again the two listened. Young Eagle touched his friend’s arm. “Men climb the trail.”
“Should we tell them we are here?”
“No, Dull Knife, perhaps a night party of Acomas return from business in the other pueblos.”
They listened a moment longer. “I hear my father’s breath,” Dull Knife said before he gave the call of the night nighthawk. An answering call told him he was right.
Lobo led his band of warriors onto the mesa. Young Eagle could tell his father and his band were ready to fight for all the braves wore their red bandanna tied into a war bonnet. None of them wore anything else but knee length moccasins and a leather loincloth with a knife stuck into a leather scabbard secured from their waists.
“Young Eagle, you are sick,” Lobo whispered.
“Scorpion bites. The grain storage bins are straight ahead.”
“I will lead,” Dull Knife said softly.
Entering into the bins, five warriors scooped out corn and the white man’s grains, wheat and barley.
“Let them over the cliff with your ropes,” Lobo commanded. “Don’t take too much. Like the ants that store their winter food, we will starve these Acomas. Next time we are in need of food, we will find nothing.”
Loco located the storage place where trading blankets were kept. Again Lobo led men into storage bins. Again the men let down merchandise. While the other warriors raided, Dull Knife disappeared from his companion’s side. Before the men came back from where rugs were stored, Young Eagle was back guarding the trail entrance.
“Where have you been?” Young Eagle asked. He was feverish.
“A young maiden’s scent called on the night air.”
“She will alert the others,” Young Eagle scolded.
“She is bound and gagged.”
“You risk the success of this raid for the pleasures of a young maiden?”
Dull Knife groaned in ecstasy. “Perhaps an Apache papoose rests in her wound. Without us these Pueblos would become so inbred, they would degenerate into imbeciles.”
“They watch their blood lines carefully.”
“Like us bringing captive children into our families, they need a wild Apache into their beds once in awhile.”
Young Eagle explained. “They buy children from us. Some of them intermarry.”
Dull Knife groaned when he touched his bruised penis. “It is much more pleasurable my way.”
Loco motioned for the two friends to start down the trail. “You have done your jobs well. Not even a barking dog alerted our sleeping benefactors.”
“You taught us well to quiet the curs,” Young Eagle said. They led the others down the narrow, winding trail into the darkness covering the ground below them. Only the brilliant twinkling stars guided their feet.
CHAPTER TEN
Young Eagle hardly knew when he reached Mount Taylor. Even though cold water from an icy stream had almost healed the small red areas where venom had entered, the scorpions’ bites had caused his hand to swell so he could not close it.

The first day after they reached a place to camp, every time the young warrior opened his eyes, Apache Rose was bent over him. She changed poultices, put cold moss on his forehead, and fed him hot stew laced with juice from bitterroot.

“It's good you open your eyes,” she said in a voice that reminded him of one the meadowlark makes in early spring.

“Mother says it would be good practice for me to take care of a warrior who was so brave.”

“The others will talk,” he said. His weak voice sounded strange to him.

“You don't know the ways of our people about young maidens and sick braves,” she said with a smile.

Young Eagle looked at her from eyelids almost closed in pretended sleep. His glance swept over her slender body clad in a rose print cloth stolen from a wagon train many moons ago. Her long, black hair hung loose past her waist. Today she had used a silver clasp to keep it from falling into her face. White doeskin leggings finished out her costume.

“The silver clasp complements your hair,” he said.

“It is the one you traded with the Mexican peddler for.”

“It is an honor you wear it in my presence.”

“Your mother and I have worried a great deal about you.” Her voice told him what he had wanted to know. She loved him.

“I have waited a long time to be near you,” he said bashfully.

“Only because you are sick have I been given the opportunity to do what I have wanted to do for a long time.”

“I will be glad when the time comes so we can be together forever,” he said.

“You know the Apache way.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“An unmarried maiden who is free with men is called a whore. Not only will people mock her, men feel free to use her for their needs.”

“No other man better touch you,” Young Eagle growled.

“I am glad you are jealous.” She bent her head so he could not see the love shining in her eyes.

“Your beauty is as frail as the wild roses growing in our beloved Davis Mountains.”

“You remember their beauty?” she asked. .

“I remember. Mother told me she buried my birth placenta where I was born.”

Apache Rose spoke softly. “It is another Apache way. The baby will grow to be a warrior and return to his place of birth.”

“Not if White-eyes own the land.” His voice grew dejected.

“Let’s not speak of such an unpleasant subject on such a beautiful day.” She tried to keep sadness out of her voice, but her mind turned to old Apache talk about how it was before foreign people bothered the free ways of her people.

“Manuelito still says we must go to Carson. He waits only until we have gathered fallen pinyon nuts.”

“Even after we proved ourselves to be Apaches by stealing from the Acoma nation?”

She answered, “Even more so. Soon Pony Soldiers will be on our trail.”

The young warrior watched his beloved go to her brush dwelling. Even though nights in the mountains were cold, the People had not unrolled their hide dwellings. Young Eagle knew brush shelters were less likely for Navahos and White-eyes to find. He did not worry about revenge from the Acomas. They were too much like old women to follow Apaches. In all probability, they would go to the Pony Soldiers for help.

Young Eagle slept a night full of Apache Rose. She removed her clasp and let her long hair fall down over his nakedness. He clung to his blanket and dreamed he caressed her with his hands. Awakening, he smelled the smell of a new wool blanket with symbols from the Acomas.

Bright sunshine shone in his eyes. He tried to turn so the light would go away. “Your father needs you in council,” his mother scolded.

“Don’t you pick pinyon nuts with the others?” Both knew warriors didn't search among fallen needles for the small, brown nuts.

“I come back to prepare the noon meal,” she told him.

“I have slept the morning away?” Young Eagle asked.

“Apache Rose sat with you until her mother insisted she gather nuts.”

“I dreamed of her letting her hair fall down over my body.”

“It was not a dream. I saw her. She loves you a great deal.”

Young Eagle threw back his blanket. “Where is Dull Knife?”

“He watches that Navahos do not molest us. Tomorrow morning you shall take your turn.”

“Are there many pinyon nuts?”

“There are many. Hurry. Your father has some very serious questions to ask you.”
After he had eaten a strip of cooked venison from the haunch turning on a spit, he went to where the men met under a large cedar tree.

“Are you better, my son?”

“I am better, Father.”

“Sleep does more for the wounded than a medicine man praying over them. Young Eagle, Dull Knife will be here soon. It is time for the ceremony of the braves.”

“I cannot take part.”

“Why?” his father asked.

“I have not made coup, nor have I killed an enemy of the People.”

“Dull Knife implied you killed an Acoma.”

“Dull Knife killed both of them. I was too sick.”

“We cannot have the ceremony until you have met the requirements.”

Dull Knife had entered the meeting place. Sitting with his legs crossed, he spoke, “I shall wait until my blood brother is ready to become a warrior.”

“It may be a long time,” Manulieto reminded him. “Remember, we go to Carson to learn the ways of peace. By the way, gunshots may bring the enemy to us. Use your bows and arrows.”

Dull Knife said nothing. He kept his eyes toward the ground so no one could see his hurt.

“Come,” Young Eagle told his blood brother, “I will stand watch with you.”

When they reached the hillside where pickers went about their backbreaking task, the two young braves took a few moments to shuck a handful of nuts from the frost-opened burs. Pinyon resin stuck to their hands. In a few minutes they had all they could eat in an hour.

“Watch in close,” Young Eagle said. “I will make a larger circle to make sure no Navaho hides.”

Leaving his horse behind, he crept silently over a soft bed of needles. Shafts of sunbeams lit up the forest floor. Small birds twittered among black branches covered with green needles. The silence of the forest opened the young warrior's mind to thoughts of Ussen. Seldom did the youth think of a Supreme Being, but here among the stillness, his thoughts turned upward. He prayed, and his prayer was that he might be given a chance to kill an enemy today.

Creeping to the edge of the grove of trees, Young Eagle listened intently before he came into the sagebrush flat surrounding an outcropping of red rock. He felt an instant of exhilaration when he looked up at Mount Taylor’s hoary head recently made white with snow.

Something did not seem right. Sensing something was wrong, Young Eagle waited for nature to tell him if danger skulked in the midst of this peaceful scene.

Blue pinyon squakers flew into eat their share of ripe nuts. A group of noisy crows hovered around an old tree. A red-tailed hawk spread its wings to make a kill on a small rodent in the scattered brush. Reaching the outcropping of rocks, the hawk pulled out of its dive. Flapping its wings, it hurriedly circled upward toward the mountain peak.

What had scared the hawk away? Young Eagle crept from bush to bush. He came closer to the giant rock formation. A buck deer frightened from its hiding place bounded into the air. The Apache warrior tightened his grip on his bow. He was not ready to put an arrow on his bowstring.

When he realized he would have to expose himself for a moment to gain hiding among the rocks, he ran a zigzag path using every concealment for protection. He froze when a chickadee sent up a warning call. Assured he had not been seen, Young Eagle crouched behind a boulder before he ran to another place of concealment. A crow calling in a loud, raucous voice made the hunter sink lower to the red dirt. Something was wrong.

Keeping close to the ground, the creeping warrior made sure his buckskin shirt didn't catch onto an object that would move and give away his position. Reaching the rocky ridge, Young Eagle realized he stood on the precipices of a steep gorge. Down the smoother waterway, a Navaho warrior some older than himself, rode a battle-scarred pony. The watcher’s heart caught in his throat. Not wishing to kill without a reason, Young Eagle realized he could go down the ledge into the sagebrush and lie in wait until the other warrior came out of the arroyo. He beat the Navaho to the place a trail led out of the natural hiding place.

Young Eagle gave the call of a turkey. The Navaho rider coming out of the arroyo looked up. Nothing looked out of place.

Excitement rose in Young Eagle’s chest. The Navaho rode his horse directly toward where the Apache women gathered nuts. A chipmunk chattered. Young Eagle knew Dull Knife moved in to help him make the kill. He could tell the Navaho was alert to possible danger. Working across a point of land, he drew closer to his enemy.

A small bird sounded an alarm. Dull Knife had narrowed his distance to where he was almost in striking distance. Suddenly the Navaho made his move. Kicking his spotted mount in the flanks, the rider bore down on where the women bent over in work. Apache Rose worked under a giant pinyon on the forest edge.

Dull Knife ran to the rescue. The Navaho reached down and swooped the young woman bringing her into the curve of his body. The kidnapper’s horse galloped to where Young Eagle lay in wait. He knew he must make his first arrow strike its mark. The horse’s nostril flared to draw in more air. Young Eagle stood for a better shot. The startled animal reared when an arrow buried into its heart. There was no time to draw another.

Both warriors drew their knives. Young Eagle caught a glimpse of Dull Knife coming out of hiding. He sprang forward ready to take Apache Rose away from her aroused captor. Young Eagle’s knife drew first blood.

The enemy warrior turned lose of his captor. Grabbing up his leather shield, he made ready for a battle to the death. The older warrior made the Apache look like an undeveloped youth. The Navaho thrust his foot out in a vicious kick. Before Young Eagle took the brunt of the blow, his knife slashed through his opponent’s leather vest.

“You die, Apache devil,” the older man snarled. Young Eagle’s sharp knife made another gash through the vest. Another thrust tore the war cap from the savage fighter’s head.

The Navaho came in for the kill. Apache Rose struck him with a sharp stone.

Dull Knife rose from concealment behind a fallen log.

“Leave him to me,” Young Eagle said. He advanced.

More dangerous since his life was in danger, the Navaho like a rattlesnake coiled to strike. Blood seeped through the two gashes in his vest.

“Prepare to die, Apache pup,” he growled as he thrust with his gnashing knife that sought to let his opponent’s blood. They became animals. Both knew only death could stop the combat. Again Young Eagle felt the knife’s point. Dull Knife closed into help. “I must kill by myself,” the fighter growled. He lunged and thrust upward. His opponent’s bloody knife touched his throat. The Apache again thrust. When he felt the knife entering his flesh, he thrust harder.

The Navaho spat blood. Young Eagle came in for the kill. The Navaho’s feeble death chant told him there was no use striking again.

Lobo and Loco led ten mounted men to where the ground grew bloody. Young Eagle defiantly reached his hands onto the Navaho’s bleeding chest. With his opened palms, the young Apache left crimson prints on both cheeks.

Manulieto was last to ride up. Looking at the bloody handprints, he let out a victory cry before he said, “Fierce Eagle, tonight around the campfire, you become an Apache warrior.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN
Young Eagle had ridden into the mountain’s thick forest of pinyons, unproven. Fierce Eagle rode out two days later, not only a warrior, but also a man. Etched on his mind was the message, HE HAD KILLED.

Looked upon with respect by the other Apaches, he was surprised to find he had no burst of pride in the killing. To his dazed mind came only the fact he had taken a man’s life in combat. The pleasure of the kill would not come. Surely he must be cursed to be one of those men who stayed with the women when the other warriors rode into battle. The thrill of the kill must come in the place of this revulsion that ate deep into his guts.

Manulieto led his people with pride. While they drove a herd of horses, each person rode. No longer were they forced to let part of their group ride to rest those who had walked.

Their pack mules carried bulging bags of pinyon nuts. A winter’s supply of smoked venison and antelope meat rested heavily on the last animals. Grain from the Acoma's granary also laden beasts of burden.

“Carson will know he is not dealing with a band of starving Apaches,” Manulieto told Loco and Lobo.

“We can make our own way,” Lobo agreed. “Would it not be best to hide out in some hidden valley?”

Manulieto would not give in to this temptation. “The Pony Soldiers will hunt us until the ground runs red with our blood. There is nothing else to do but turn ourselves in and ask for peace.”

“What will we do then?” Loco asked.

“Perhaps we shall take up farming. We can raise hay for the White-eyes’ horses. Perhaps they will let us go back to our beloved mountains and help Blazer make lumber at his sawmill.”

“I would rather fight than become an old woman.” Lobo rode close enough so Young Eagle and Dull Knife could hear. “Perhaps in a few years we can break away and go to the Mexico mountains. Already many Apaches follow Geronimo in plundering Mexican villages and stealing their horses.”

Manuelito growled. “For those who continue to fight the White-eyes, there is nothing but death. Follow my way. Some of our people shall eventually go east and learn out of white men’s books. Perhaps some of our people will become doctors and lawyers. Some may even represent us in Washington.”

“Soon we cross the wagon road from Bear Springs to Taos,” a scout reported back to Manulieto.

“Loco, you take Lobo and your sons. Drive extra horses before you. Find Navahos who needs to buy some of our horses. When we get to Carson, we can buy white men’s things. Not only will we dress like White-eyes, we shall buy wagons and fill them with farming equipment.”

“We take our women and children,” Lobo said.

“They would be more protected here with us.” Manulieto hated to see his band split.

The families drove forty horses before them. “Don’t be gone long,” Manulieto called after them. “It is best we are together when snow comes.”

The two leaders rode westward toward what the Pony Solders called Fort Wingate.

Lobo said, “Navahos constantly help freighters haul raw material out of Navaho land. They have money and a need for horses.” The other three warriors agreed.

Fierce Eagle, riding in front to scout with Dull Knife, grew lost in admiring the beauty of the country he rode through. Red rock cliffs guarded valleys growing tough bunchgrass dotted with clumps of yucca. Among the boulders, outcroppings of mountain cedar made bare spots. Their competition for life-giving moisture went on constantly.

Twice the alert watcher saw herds of mule deer. Massed for winter, one herd consisted of more than a hundred. Does far outnumbered the magnificent bucks.

Even more striking than the deer was a herd of elk. Through with their summer job of raising young, the large family units moved majestically through the dwarfed landscape. These giants of the wild life were drifting in from snow-covered forests in Colorado.

“Antelope,” Dull Knife said in a whisper. One loud sound and these swift animals would fade into the horizon. “If the government would let Apaches take care of this, no one who lives here would go hungry.”

“They want their own kind,” Fierce Eagle growled. “White-eyes want only to destroy. They make a contest of how many wild animals they can slaughter. Buffalo hunters in our fathers’ land on the plains kill wantonly. Manulieto says they leave piles of buffalo bones to clutter the prairie.”

“Nothing will be the same. Instead of killing Indians, why don’t they let us care for wilderness areas? We could preserve the natural beauty. Rivers would not run red with Mother Earth’s skin.”

“Silt kills the fish,” Fierce Eagle agreed. “Ussen and Child of the Water are not pleased that their creation is destroyed. Someday White-eyes will be punished for their wanton ways. Many moons the land has been here. Winter and summer, snow of winter, rains of fall and spring, droughts of summer, the earth has survived. Now White-eyes in a few moons have caused havoc on our beautiful home. Soon smoke from their campfires will blot out much of the heaven’s light.”

Dull Knife held up his hand. “Many wagons come."

Fierce Eagle listened for a moment. “The sun will be overhead before they arrive. Ride swiftly so our fathers can hide the horses until we are paid. I will stay. If Pony Soldiers protect the wagons, I can warn father so all of us can hide.”

Sounds of approaching wagons and teams grew louder. The still, cold air on the plateau overlooking sagebrush land leading to the tall mountain peak filled with sounds. To Fierce Eagle hiding behind a curtain of brush, the ominous sounds filled him with terror. Neither white men nor Navahos were friends.

He kept his shaking horse steady by guttural threats. The hardest part was to keep the stallion from sending out a greeting. The watcher stayed only long enough to make sure no Pony Solders followed the caravan of green wagon beds mounted on large, yellow wheels.

Racing through the brush country, Fierce Eagle found Lobo and Loco waiting. There were no signs of women, children, or other horses.

“They come,” he told his father.

“Soldiers?”

“None.”

Lobo pulled a white cloth from his shirt. Tying it to his rifle barrel, he rode to meet a short, stocky man whose face was shaded by a black, wide-brimmed hat.

When the small band of Apaches appeared, three unknown men who had taken up with the wagon train disappeared into the sagebrush.

“Why we leavin’?” Scar Face asked.

Drifter seeing they were out of sight, took a moment to light a smoke he made from tobacco and paper he carried in his shirt pocket. “Wagon boss is an Indian lover. He finds out we shot those young Apaches on the Rio Grande, he’s liable to cause trouble.”

“Where you have in mind goin’?” Cherokee Joe hated Apaches for their free ways. His Cherokee ancestors had lost their freedom when they had to move on the Oklahoma reservation.

“Heard there’s a Cavalry troop coming east of here. Thought they would like to know about these Mexican horses.”

“You have a fierce hatred for Injuns in general?” Scar Face asked. He did not have any love for the Redmen, but he wouldn’t go out of his way to cause them any particular trouble.

“They’re interfering in my brother and my plans to use land in the Tularosa.”

“Reason we killed the lawyer?” Scar Face asked.

“He was usin’ his law to protect some small ranchers, Mexicans, and Mescalero.”

“What’re your plans?” Cherokee Joe asked.

“You and Scar Face are hired hands. Me and my brother’s plans don’t concern you.”

“Seems like we’re more like hired guns,” Scar Face growled.

“You complaining about the pay?” Drifter asked. Both men shook their heads.

“Keep your mouths shut about me and my brother’s business.” The leader threw down his glowing butt and rode to the west.

Dressed in a mixture of discarded Confederate Army uniform and buckskin breeches, the wagon-master said, “Glad to see you, Injun. Names Tim Slade from Canyon de Chelly. What brings you here?” Neither man showed any fear.

Lobo kept his rifle pointed upward. The white cloth fluttered and drooped. The small army of Navahos and white men with the wagons kept their hands on un-drawn guns.

“Many horses to sell,” Lobo explained.

“How many horses?” Slade asked.

“Sixty, one or more less.”

“Where’d you get these horses?” Slade asked suspiciously.

“Trade with Mexican rancher.”

“Apaches aren’t a very rich nation right now. What did you trade?”

“Apaches have many secret treasures.”

“Gold mines, stolen Mexican treasures. I’ve heard of your treasures. Mind showing me the horses?”


Lobo signaled for Loco to bring the herd from hiding. The horses broke from between two giant rocks. Fierce Eagle and Dull Knife brought up the rear.

Slade snaked out a coil of lariat. “These carry the markings. Sure you got them legally?”

“Legally,” Loco answered.

Slade growled, “I’m dealing with just one of you Injuns. You answer me,” he said pointing to Lobo.

“I talk.” Fierce Eagle was proud of the way his father answered without hesitation or fear.

“How much you asking?” The years since the war had not made this ex-Confederate solider lose his Southern drawl.

“Take all, five dollars.”

“A head?”

“A head,” Lobo answered.

“Three hundred’s a lot of money, but we can use the horses.” He reached into his wallet and counted out three bills.

Lobo took the money and signaled for the three drovers to let Slade’s men take over.

“Much obliged.” He thanked Slade before he and the others disappeared into a hidden valley behind the two rocks.





CHAPTER TWELVE HERE
Lobo and his party reached the main band just before the Pony Soldiers came within sight. Dull Knife saw them first. “They have left the road,” he told Manulieto.

Manulieto looked at the dim blue-clad riders who were taking a shortcut. “Stack your guns,” he told his followers.

“Stack our guns?” Lobo asked.

“We surrender. Bluecoats take us to Carson.”

Lobo laughed in derision. “What makes you think they’ll take us to Carson? Likely they’ll take us to prison.”

“For what?” Manulieto asked.

“Perhaps for stealing Montoyo’s horses for starters. Maybe they know about our raid on the Acomas.”

“Pony Soldiers care nothing for us stealing from Mexicans and other Indians.”

“Plus we killed two Acomas,” Lobo reminded the chief. “White men’s laws different from Apache. We break none of Apache laws by stealing and killing. White-eyes put us in prison for doing things they do to each other and Apaches.”

“Stack your guns,” Manulieto growled. “We meet Pony Soldiers unarmed.”

“You’ve gone soft in the head,” Lobo whispered. “I’m taking as many Apaches as I can and getting out of here.”

“You obey me,” the chief growled.

Lobo spoke sternly. “Those of you who want to live, follow me.”

Without hesitation, eight warriors motioned for their families to follow. Among those who followed Loco was Apache Rose's family.

“Where do we go?” Loco asked.

“South to Davis Mountains where roses bloom,” Lobo said defiantly.

Fierce Eagle started to take pack animals with their loads of supplies.

“Leave them,” his father ordered. “Pony Soldiers find us if we have much supplies to slow us down. You,” he ordered Fierce Eagle and Dull Knife, “you stay here. Hide. Catch us and tell what Bluecoats do to Manulieto and our brothers.”

Loco trailed the two friends’ horses to a rocky ridge and tied them behind bushy cedars. Fierce Eagle and Dull Knife buried themselves under a layer of gramagrass. Only their eyes and ears were exposed.

The two watched Manulieto attach a white flag to a cedar stick and ride out to meet the captain leading the Cavalry.

Holding up his hand, Manulieto gave the sign of peace, “Me, Manulieto of the Mescalero Apaches.”

The flawlessly dressed captain drew himself to attention, “Captain Pfeiffer from Fort Wingate. Mind answering a few question?”

Manulieto shook his head.

“Where you going?”

“Santa Fe to surrender to Carson.”

The captain let memories of a wife Indians had mutilated drift through his mind. Even though a Navaho led those who killed the one he loved so intensely, he still lumped all Indians together. What Drifter had told him about the Montoyo’s horses hadn’t settled well on his stomach.

“Guess you wouldn’t know anything about a bunch of horses your people sold to a freight company?”

“My horses,” Manulieto answered.

“Why did they have Montoyo’s brand on them?”

Manulieto was not concerned. “Apaches steal horses from Navahos and Mexicans. Mexicans and Navahos steal horses from Apaches. All time we steal and sell each others horses.”

“And women and children,” Pfeiffer said quietly. “You the same Indians who stole and killed at Acoma?”

“I don’t remember.” Manuelito grew concerned. The Pony Solider was not going to be easily satisfied.

“Looks like pueblo blankets your people are wrapped up in. Bet if we search your things we would find Acoma grain.”

Manulieto changed the subject. “White-eyes kill our young men while they were in water without weapons.”

“Doesn’t give you an excuse to kill and steal from innocent people. Why are you turning your people over to Carson?”

“Once the grass grew tall,” Manulieto answered.

“Apache, what does this have to do with your killing and stealing?”

“White man speak, Apache listen. Apache speak, white man no listen.”

“This blame wind is getting cold,” Pfeiffer said. “Let’s get behind a hill.”

“Apaches build fire. We eat.”

Pfeiffer considered it a moment. “Until this is settled, best we keep on our horses. Pardon the interruption.”

Manulieto started his speech again. “Long time ago before white man come, grass grew high. Rivers run blue with good water. Much game for everybody. Now Apache starve.”

“Get you some land and farm.” Pfeiffer made sure none of the Apaches were circling to his and his men’s backs.

“We farm. First Mexicans from Mesillia come and take our land. We move. White men from Texas bring in cattle and sheep. Again we lose our land.”

“Anything else to gripe about?” Pfeiffer asked.

“Long time ago, Apache stay in mountains in summer. Keep cool. In winter we go into desert. Sometimes we go to Mexico.”

Pfeiffer interrupted. “You stole and killed.”

“No concern to White-eyes.”

“Pony Soldiers’ business to keep Indians from hurting and robbing Mexicans.”

“Why?” Manulieto asked.

“Treaty of Hidalgo says it’s our business to make Indians keep peace on both sides of the border.”

“Great White Father in Washington keeps treaty with Mexico. Treaty with Apaches not worth paper written on.”

Pfeiffer grew irritated. “What does this have to do with your turning yourselves into Carson?”

Manulieto was worried. This Bluecoat was not softening. “Apache fight for freedom many moons. Ground of our sacred mountains run red with Apache and Bluecoat blood. We fight with bow and arrows. You shoot us with guns until few of us left.”

“Seems like your people have plenty of rifles now.”

“We buy from Comancheroes. Rifle plentiful, Apache warriors few. We can fight no longer. Game is almost gone. There is no land for Apaches to farm. We turn ourselves into Carson. He’ll tell us what to do. Once he married to Indian woman.”
Pfeiffer had a flashback to his mutilated wife. Government treaty kept him from killing Navahos without a good reason. The United States had no workable treaty with Apaches.
“Tell you what, Apache. I have listened to your trash long enough. Me and my men think the best way to handle the wild Indian problem is to kill them.”
Manulieto realized he was dealing with a fanatic. “We are unarmed.”
Pfeiffer drew his pistol. Taking careful aim, he shot an old man standing behind the chief. “Go for your guns.”
“Apaches surrender. Apaches no fight Pony Soldiers.”
The captain grew angry. “When I give a command, you obey.”
“What do you want us to do?” Manulieto asked.
“Go for your guns.” Pfeiffer fired a shot that left a purple hole in the chief’s foot.
Manulieto crossed his arms over his chest. “Kill me, Pony Solider. My people no longer fight.”
“You hear this bastard defying orders?” the captain shouted.
A sergeant spoke softly. “You give the order to shoot innocent Apaches, authorities will call it murder.”
“Murder? How can they call killing a bunch of thieving, killing Apaches, murder?”
“Some of us have consciences,” the sergeant answered in a defiant voice.
“Give the order to fire.”
The sergeant sat his horse in a stubborn stance. “Captain, these Apaches are not hostiles.”
Pfeiffer shot the chief’s horse. “Now maybe you’ll go for your guns.”
A brave made a move to get out of the line of fire. The stacked rifles were in his exit route.
Pfeiffer told the rebellious sergeant, “Give the order to fire. Damn you, they’ll kill us all.”
“Fire,” the sergeant ordered. His command was given in a voice full of sorrow. Even though the brave was going toward the rifles, he knew he would testify at an inquiry that he did not feel justified in giving the order.
A volley of shots sounded. First to fall was a squaw and her papoose. The bullet went through her body, through the cradleboard into the baby’s body.
Fierce Eagle and Dull Knife peeked when the Bluecoats stopped firing. Two privates walked among the Apaches to kill any whom moved.
Pfeiffer rode his horse close to where Manulieto lay in a pool of blood. Sighting carefully, he emptied his pistol. The chief’s hands were still clasped in the sign of peace.
Fierce Eagle and Dull Knife pulled deeper into their hiding place. Twice bullets ricochet off sandstone rocks and dug holes in the dry grama turf. They stayed buried until an owl hooted twice.
“The Pony Soldiers are gone,” Fierce Eagle whispered.
“And the owl tells of our people’s death.”
Knowing they could not help the dead, the two ran silently to where their horses waited patiently. Apache war was about to begin.
The full moon told of vengeance for the death of innocent Apaches.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Lobo was an Apache chief with his own people. While he waited for his son and Dull Knife to join them, he fasted and prayed to Ussen for guidance. To help meditate, he took small sips of mescal from a leather pouch. He had managed to find ten peyote buttons that he chewed carefully. Behind his closed eyelids flashes of lights emitted stronger than lightning during the most fierce of summer storms. The intensity of the lifht gained in strength. "I can't stand this," he cried out.
Lobo's naked body fell to the ground. He had stripped himself of all clothing before he started the ritual prayer. A roaring filled his ears. Muscles in his thigh jerked causing him to fall into a deep sleep. Even in sleep there was no escape from the constant flashing of the lights that bombarded his throbbing optic nerves. His mouth became dry. He tried to call out to Ussen, but no words would come out of his mouth. In his agony he called out to Child of the Water. The infant figure turned to Painted Woman. All three of the god figures closed their ears.
“My husband, you must eat,” Canor pleaded with her husband. Secluded among a jumble of weathered lava flows, the new chief would not speak to other people. For three days and nights he had let his people rest in a secluded canyon wilderness. There was an abundance of game. Frozen pools of water collected in rock basins melted enough each day to provide water for both humans and animals.
Lobo’s answer was, “Ussen, speak to me. Tell me what I must do to preserve the identity of your people.” The gray storm clouds gave no answer.
On the fifth day, Loco knelt by Lobo’s side. “Has the great Ussen given you orders.”
“He says to wait until my son brings a report of what happened to Manulieto and his followers.”
“Our sons should have been here by now. Are you sure Fierce Eagle knows where we wait for him?”
“He knows,” Lobo said. His eyes turned upward to a ray of sunlight coming through a rent in the cloud cover.
Suddenly, Painted Woman and her son, Child of the Water, appeared. Son of the Water spoke. “Chief Lobo, when Fierce Eagle arrives, you are to start your peoples’ journey deep into the Davis mountains. As you travel, kill Mexicans who tend their sheep.”
“They are our friends.” The chief wondered if hunger was driving him mad.
“Kill settlers who invade my land.”
“Women and children, also?” Lobo asked.
Son of the Water spoke sternly. “I have made you chief. Kill all White-eyes.”
“Why?” the chief asked.
“White-eyes destroy my creation. Unlike my Apache people, these new settlers wound Mother Earth. They kill my wild animals for sport. They tear vegetation from the earth so they can make fields.”
Chief Lobo took a drink of mescal. The fiery liquid burned his empty stomach.
“Must I kill even their babies?”
Son of the Water paused. “Save as many of the babies and small children as you can. Yours is a small band. Raise up a new Apache nation from the offspring of Mexicans and White-eyes.”
“How will I know you have spoken?”
A pained look came over Child of the Water’s face. “You are leader of a strange people. I will give you a sign to let you know I speak the truth.”
“What is the sign?” Lobo asked.
“When Fierce Eagle returns you will know why you must do as I have told you.”
The rift in the clouds closed. Lobo knew snow would fall before the sun came up again.
Fierce Eagle’s voice brought Lobo from his meditations. “Father, your wane face tells of many hours of seeking to speak with Ussen.”
“Mescal and peyote have increased my awareness.”
“Did you get a message?”
Lobo looked deranged. “Son of the Water spoke to me.”
Fierce Eagle spoke the words every seeker of a message from Ussen was asked. “Was your ears filled by mescal and peyote?”
“Before I tell you Son of the Water’s message, tell me your message. What did Pony Soldiers do to Manulieto and our people?”
“Manulieto and our people are dead. Pony soldiers killed all of them.”
“Did anyone try to reach their rifles?”
“No one tried to reach their weapons. Our people were shot down in cold blood while Manulieto tried to surrender.”
Lobo gave out a cry of anguish. Using his knife, he slashed his arm until blood flowed over his stolen blanket. “So many of my people are dead. People I have known since my childhood are dead.”
“I cried with every striking bullet. They shot babies in their cradleboards.”
“My son, we must kill every enemy of our people. Son of the Water told me to slaughter every sheepherder, every storekeeper, and every farmer. Every one who disturbs Mother Nature’s coat must die.”
“Where will we get guns and ammunition?”
“Son of the Water told us to go to the Davis Mountains. We are to rob stagecoaches and freight wagons and use the money to pay Comancheros.”
“You are sure there is no other way? I’m certain Apaches can’t win against the white man.”
Lobo spoke prophetically. “Apaches have fought successfully against their enemy, the Mexicans.”
“Father, these White-eyes are even more fierce than are the Comanches who drove our people out of land where buffalo were plentiful.”
“Then this time we shall fight harder.”
Fierce Eagle was resigned to living a hunted life. He knew he would forsake the comfort of campfire and family to fight a common enemy. He also knew he had to try one more time to dissuade his father from this suicidal way.
“One time Ussen told Manulieto to farm and raise cattle. He said there was no longer any use of fighting the White-eyes.”
“Father Washington deceived his Apache children. He promised land along streams so Apaches farmers could make a living. Every time settlers want our land, we are made to leave. Ussen told me if White-eyes don’t keep their treaties, then Apaches don’t have to keep their word. Come, it is time we prepare our people for war.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Every since he was a young man, Pedro Sanchez had pastured sheep in the Tulerosa Basin. At first he had a small flock of his own. When big stockmen moved in from Texas, he combined his sheep with a rancher named Oliver Lee.
Pedro had a combined herd of over three thousand ewes. Since he left the summer range in the Sacramento Mountains, he had let the herd drift southward into arid land where the animals browsed on dry bunchgrass and semi-desert shrubs.
The sun had barely peered over the mountain peak to the herder’s northeast to reveal the sturdy middle-aged man who didn't bother to shave or cut his long black hair streaked with gray. He and his three longhaired sheep dogs stayed close to a glowing campfire. They had been out with the sheep for the past three hours. Smells of boiling coffee co-mingling with frying eggs and mutton made him realize how hungry he was. Already he had thrown six hunks of hot bread to the dogs.
Pedro often talked to the friendly animals. This morning while the sheep grazed along arroyos, he told the dogs, “Keep a watch for coyotes. They sang about our coming all last night.”
The three dogs cut their eyes back at their master. Not only did they admire him, they wishfully hoped he would throw them more food. Chasing jackrabbits on an empty stomach was hard work.
The herder sat down on a folded bedroll and gratefully sipped scalding hot coffee. He figured after he finished his meal, he would pitch his tent, and if the sheep stayed together, he would take a little nap.
Before he could finish his eating, one of his five pack burros let out a welcoming bray. This was the first indication any other people were around.
“Damn,” he told his dogs, “we got Mescaleros coming in. I better hustle up some more food.”
The four Apache riders rode in fast. Their horses kicked up dirt when they came to a sudden halt.
Pedro was alarmed to see all four wore war paint. He did not go for his rifle when he realized Lobo and Loco were with their sons. None of old Manulieto’s people had ever given him any trouble. Always he had fed them and talked awhile before they parted company. Usually, the friendly Apaches gave him a haunch of deer or antelope.
When Loco drew his bow and sent an arrow into the sheepherder’s chest, the agile man never even had time to throw his hands up to protect himself.
“You braves never had any reason to do that.” A gush of blood coming out of his mouth cut off thoughts he had of Rosa and their seven children in the small Mexican town of Tularosa. He’d planned to be with them for Christmas.
Dull Knife was first to reach the campfire. He used an Army colt to kill the three dogs that lunged at the intruders.
“Get his things,” Lobo ordered. All four Apaches started gathering up camp equipment. It took them only a short time to bring the two hobbled horses and eight pack burros to the fire. There was enough cooked food for all four.
After they finished eating, Lobo spoke. “Fierce Eagle, bring the others. We stay here and eat mutton a few days.”
The leader motioned for Loco and Dull Knife to follow him. Riding through the unsuspecting sheep, he wantonly slaughtered close to two hundred before they started dragging carcasses to the fire. Before the other warriors with the women and children arrived, all three men were slashing away at choice pieces of gutted sheep.
Canor was first to speak after the butchering. “We take many pelts with us. They will make fine leather and warm clothing.”
When the small band of Apaches rode through Dog Canyon, they looked back. Coyotes and wolves killed without rhyme or reason. Flocks of cawing crows congregated to tear the dead animals’ eyes out before they joined the other meat-eaters in a Bacchus feast. Tularosa Basin creatures gorged themselves for a month.
When the owner of the sheep, Oliver Lee, brought a relief herder so Pedro could go home for Christmas, there were only a few ragged sheep grazing on sagebrush and cured grass. Angrily, Lee mounted his black horse, Diablo, and pulling the reins viciously, he motioned for the relief herder to follow. With a vengeance he set out to bring death to all Apaches.
The small band of Mescaleros had joined up with more Apaches hiding in the Guadalupe Mountains in a canyon where crispy red maple leaves covered the ground.
“When spring comes, we will go to our Davis Mountains,” Lobo told his people. “Better for now we clear the mountain corridor of White-eyes.”
Apache women and children kept warm and dry in shelters covered with animal skins. Small black-haired children dressed in warm, woolen clothing played together while the Apache warriors sat in war council.
Sun filtering through dense groves of trees growing along the canyon walls made splotches on the forest floor. Herds of mule deer stopped grazing on acorns long enough to watch bands of somber Apaches ride to Lobo’s camp. Shelters had grown to over a hundred.
Lobo sat at the head of the council on an attractive rug brought in by a group who had recently raided in Navaho land. Plunder hung from every available space in the council lodge. The packed earthen floor was covered with luxuriant rugs captured in raids made deep in Mexico.
“Arizona Carlos Reservation Apaches follow Geronimo into Mexico,” a warrior who led ten braves and their families, reported.
“Victorio has left Warm Springs and hides out in Mescalero mountains. He plans to cross the Rio Grande at El Paso with many warriors,” another brave reported. “Unrest among the People grows like maggots on a dead dog in summer heat. This time we shall not let Pony Soldiers deceive us into going back onto reservations where those who don’t starve, die of white man’s diseases.”
“Smoke signals go up from the mountains telling us to unite and chase the White-eyes from our land.” After this last warrior spoke, cries of war filled the council room. Warriors had emptied potent hide flasks filled with Apache and white man’s strong drink. Peyote caused wild Apache warriors to see visions and hear violent voices.
Lobo stood. His war blouse hung down over his loincloth. All knew by his red scarf made into a combat bonnet, he and his followers were at war!
“We leave our women and children here while we turn White-eye land into a blood bath. No longer shall we live in bondage. No longer shall the Great White Father in Washington tell us where to live and what to do. Again our moccasin prints shall appear on our sacred mountain peaks. Our young men shall see visions. Our young women shall live virtuously and bear many Apache babies. Ussen has spoken. We shall be free!”
When Lobo cried out the word, "Free", the mountain peaks picked up the refrain and flung it out into the canyons of the mountain until it blasted out into the desert surrounding the south end of the blue peaks. The earth trembled for once again it would be free of the White-eyes who defiled its sacred soil with strange footsteps.
Freedom rang out across the pristine wilderness. Only the Apache nation heard. They knew it was a time for a gathering of the tribes.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN HERE
On the night Apache Rose’s red stain turned her from a maiden into a woman, Fierce Eagle and Dull Knife led five older braves to where the Double Bar X headquarters stood under bare aspen trees. Again they were in Mescalero country. Deep snow was on the ground.
The new ranch owner, Sir John Willoughby III, had recently taken up quarters in this raw country. Sometimes he and his lilac-scented wife, lovely young Roxane, wished they were home in Sussex County, England. The ranch was a legacy from his late father’s estate.
As new snow fell from laden skies, the young husband of three months sat by a roaring fire and began to seduce his wife. Her long, flowing, fur-lined robe hampered his attempts.
“A little more bubbly?” he whispered into her delicate ear.
“Oh, John, it has quite gone to my head. Surely tonight when there might be wild Indians around, you do not want to make love.”
He took her in his arms. Reaching across her shoulder, he gently pulled the robe from her magnificently shaped breast. Its pearly-white contrasted with the delicate pinkness of the nipple he positioned his mouth to draw like a fresh strawberry into his thrusting tongue. Her coyness before lovemaking always drove him crazy.
Again she warned him of attacking Indians. “Don’t be silly, my love. The Apaches have gone to Texas for the winter. Except for a few cowboys and the two house servants, there isn’t another living person within a hundred miles.”
“Oh, John,” she said when his probing hand delicately found the softness of her thighs, “you know I can’t resist you when you do that.”
His strong features turned to a young god. His sensuous mouth slid farther down onto her delicate navel where he became very passionate before sinking lower into where her shapely legs ended in a perfect V. His arousal became so intense he could no longer contain himself.
Centuries of noble births that brought him to the world of an English gentlemen melted away. He became a savage as driven by sex as any heathen crawling around in this blasted wilderness.
She could resist him no longer. Forcing his caressing lips from her cleavage, she brought him up so her own lips could find his manliness for only a moment. He plunged himself into her. Moving with the desires driving him deeper into her flesh, he settled into a rhythmic movement he hoped would last half the night.
A flaming arrow crashing through the window emptied him of passion. Still losing love fluid, he raced to get his rifle from over the mantle. There was no time to dress. The whole world was on fire.
He watched out the window as men in the bunkhouse ran from the blazing building. The hay barn shot flames into the whiteness of falling snow. A grove of pine trees blazed with an intensity he could not bear to see.
“John, what shall we do?” She stood bare in the candlelight.
“My darling, lie flat on the floor. The heat will become unbearable.”
She crawled to the couch and found her dressing gown. He was beside her on the floor. Without rising into the line of fire, he slipped on his trousers. Again without exposing himself, he crept to where his sheepskin coat hung from a brass knob.
“We have to get out of here,” he told his desirable wife.
“We are almost surrounded by flames. Oh, John, what shall we do?”
“All we can do is run for shelter. The well house still stands.” Flames leaping into the night sky gave them no place to hide. They had to take their chances without the covering of darkness.
For a few moments, John thought they were going to make it. Barefooted in the snow, they forgot everything but their fears. Two welded into one by a fleshly bond, husband and wife, they clung to each other.
Dull Knife rose from behind the woodpile. His bowstring twanged when the missile slid silently into the young husband’s heart. A cowboy hidden behind a large pine tree tried for a lucky shot. Before he could see if his aim had been good, Fierce Eagle stuck a hunting knife into the young man’s heart. Blood gushed from his mouth.
For a long moment, Fierce Eagle knew Dull Knife was dead. The cowboy had shot from less than twenty feet. He had braced his pistol against the solid pine tree. Fierce Eagle waited a moment to see if more shooting would take place. All he heard was night wind sighing heavily among the forest of aspens and pines. Running he fell down besides his fallen companion. He felt no cold from the fierce winter elements.
He was startled when Dull Knife laughed. “I live,” he said feebly.
“You are not hurt?”
“Only my rump from sliding on this snow. Next time I go south to raid.” Laughing, the two crouched and ran to where their prey lay fallen in the snow.
“He is dead,” Dull Knife said. Long fingernails sticking into his flesh let him know the young woman was not hurt. He brutally put his hands around her throat. His other hand came on her where her robe had fallen apart.
“We take revenge on all our people who have been killed by the White-eyes,” Fierce Eagle shouted. With flames leaping grotesquely into the winter sky, he and the other braves started their revenge.
The young widow stood in the snow. She could not shake Dull Knife’s hands from her body. Flames leaping into the sky allowed her to watch the savages drive themselves into a frenzy. Screaming their wild cries, they leaped. Brandishing their long knives, they vented their feeling toward their enemies who had harassed them and their ancestors for generations. Motivated by hatred and sorrow, they began their gruesome work.
Roxanne watched them take her husband’s body. Skillfully, warriors severed toes, fingers and then even the organ that procured life. Fierce Eagle threw her husband’s testicles to a waiting dog.
Not through with their gruesome task, they ripped eyes from sockets. Ears met a similar fate. The young woman let out a piercing cry of anguish, and before she slumped into Dull Knife’s arms, she watched her dead husband’s head roll severed from his body.
Fierce Eagle wrapped the young woman’s robe around her. Placing her gently on a blanket one of the braves threw down, he tried to revive her. “Does she live?” Dull Knife asked.
Putting his ear to her mouth, he listened. “She lives.” His voice filled with a softness he thought he possessed only for Apache Rose.
“What shall we do with her?” Dull Knife asked.
“Take her home with us. She will warm your lodge for a long time.”
“You do not want her?”
“I want her, but I will soon have the finest woman a man can find.” Fierce Eagle hurried. He knew the blazing fires they had set might bring neighboring ranchers.
Dull Knife thought about the older widow who shared his crude shelter. “The widow, father made me take when he caught me masturbating, will never accept her.”
“She is too old and heavy for you. Catch a spare horse,” Fierce Eagle told a watching brave.
Dull Knife gazed on Roxane’s delicate features lit by feeble light filtering through snow clouds. He knew if she lived, he must be very careful with her. She didn’t have the strength of an Apache woman. He wondered if her womb had caught any seed from her husband. No matter, she was his woman.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Drifter lay in heavy mesquite brush waiting. By his gold watch, the stagecoach from San Antonio should start its steep climb into the Davis Mountains within an hour. He dared not light another cigarette. Pungent smelling smoke could alert a wary driver.
The clatter of wheels hitting rocks at the Limpia River crossing signaled for him to slip a black bandanna over his face. He checked his rifle to make sure a shell was in the chamber. From behind a shrub juniper, Cherokee Joe, and Scar Face followed their leader’s action. Instead of rifles, these two robbers carried bows and Apache arrows hardened in a searing fire.
Four stout stallions rounded the bend before they found their way barred by three riders on horses. Old Joe, the relief driver, did not care to argue with the three highwaymen. The four male passengers and a young mother with a small baby were the values he carried. The shipment of gold coin for Fort Davis was on a freight wagon. Highwaymen had been too prevalent lately.
“Men, I’m sorry. The only treasure I have is what little pocket money me and my passengers are carrying.” The driver held his team in close check. Some of these robbers would shoot at a moving vehicle.
Drifter peered into the coach. Once he had stopped one carrying a dignitary from England. To stop an international incident, the United States Treasury had paid a bar of gold bullion.
Turning to the driver, the outlaw cursed. “Where’s your Wells Fargo box?”
“Butterfield’s been getting mighty sensitive about losing so much of someone else’s money. Insurance rates are going sky high.”
Replacing his bow and arrow with a pistol, Cherokee Joe turned ugly. “Get out,” he ordered the passengers. When the driver tried to pull a pistol, a nod from Drifter brought an arrow into the gray-haired man’s heart.
“Just as well finish them off,” Drifter ordered.
“Even the baby?” Scar Face asked.
“Even the baby.” Drifter had learned a long time ago to leave no witnesses.
Even though a saddle broker dealing with the Army went for his pearl-handled pistol, Drifter let the two men with bows do the killing. Two officers coming from furlough went for Army-issued pistols. Arrows in their chests stopped their draws. Scar Face killed the mother and child with one arrow. They died pinned together. The sharpened end of the arrow thrust its bloody point through her white blouse.
Finished with the killing, he rolled the bodies so he could find money belts and wallets. Throwing the valuables into a canvas bag, he went through one of the officer’s pockets. A gold chain caught his eye. With a struggle, he pulled out a thin gold watch with an inscription on the back. Not knowing how to read Latin, he stuck it in his pocket and began to make an incision on the officer’s bloody head.
“No scalps,” Drifter growled.
“Thought you wanted to make this look like Apache doings.”
“Guess you need to study up on our Indians. Apaches have to be awful riled up to take a scalp.” Using his knife, he mutilated the other officer. Before they left to count their loot, all the dead bodies had missing members. He severed the dead baby’s head and threw it into a clump of grass.
“Is it necessary to be so brutal?” Cherokee Joe asked.
“Maybe you don’t have the stomach for this,” Drifter growled. “We make them Niggers at the fort mad enough, they’ll go after them Apaches.”
“You doin’ all this killin’ so you and your brother can get all that Apache land? You’ve already killed a district attorney and these people on this stagecoach. Who you goin’ to kill next?”
“Best you learn to keep your damn mouth closed.” Drifter was getting mad, and the other two men knew he was dangerous when he was riled.
Cherokee Joe was more practical about the matter. “Best we get out of here before someone comes along. Guess you know arrows or no arrows, they’d string us up and ask questions later.”
The three men had unshod ponies they had run off from a small group of Apaches camped in the Baylor Mountains to the northwest.
Cherokee Joe led the way down a creek to where their horses and pack animals were loose tied so they could graze on green Texas wintergrass. “Guess you know you’ve caused trouble enough for these Mescaleros. Killin’ the duck hunters, next you sicced that Army officer on them for sellin’ stolen horses. How many more you planin’ on havin’ the Army kill?”
“Ought to be if them Niggers at Davis can track them unshod horses back to those Apaches, they’ll kill a few more.”
“You going after those cattle?” Cherokee Joe asked.
“Guess we better ride,” Drifter growled. “Might take us most of tomorrow to get there.”
Dark snow clouds hung over distant desert mountains. Twice the three men ran into powdering of snow. Until they reached the cattle camp on a running creek, they saw no other humans. Empty miles stretched out before them like it would never end. Where there was a waterhole, herds of wild Texas cattle left over from the Spanish explorers two or more centuries ago ran.
“Cattle are in good shape,” Drifter noted. “Looks like mesquite beans and bunch grass is agreeing with them.”
“How many you plannin’ on takin’?” Scar Face asked.
“Figure if me and my brother can run rest of them nesters and Mescaleros out, we can drift close to seven thousand into graze on the Tulerosa in winter. We’ll use mountain pastures in the warm months.”
“We kill anymore, you might not be able to kill enough lawmen to save his hide,” Cherokee Joe said.
“Reckon Chisum got him a good gun slinger in Billy the Kid. Guess if that ol’ mossback can hold his land, so can we.”
Cherokee Joe said no more. He knew Drifter and his brother had hired him and Scar Face for the same reason. Paid gun fighters were all they were. He almost got mad enough to leave. Trouble was if he quit Drifter and his gang, he would have to fight to live. These Lee’s had ranches from here to Montana they were stocking with Texas cattle.
The three men rode until four the next afternoon. They were without water after they left the stagecoach. Only reason the Guadalupe and Davis Mountains had water was because of the high elevation. Rest of the desert mountains had little water. Long about mid-afternoon Drifter saw a gray smoke coming from a large fire.
“Guess that must be their branding fire,” he said.
“Funny time of the year to be brandin’.”
“Lot of these Texas bush cattle don’t know who owns them. By branding this winter, we can make a herd out of them by spring.”
“Looks like that many cattle in one spot would ruin the grass,” Cherokee Joe said. The Indian blood in him told him white men’s cattle would destroy this land where his people had lived for centuries.
“We’ll keep drifting them westward in small herds. Probably finish wintering some in the Davis. Some we’ll take on to the Guadalupes.”
They came over the next rise and looked into a valley cut by a stream of running water. Their thirsty horses could stand it no longer. Shaking off all restraint, they ran. Herds of cattle raced out of their way.
After their mounts drank their fill, Drifter led the way to where riders were hazing cattle into a box canyon. Coming around a bend, the three men watched men covered with a layer of dust throw and brand cattle from small calves to bulls with horns longer than a man.
Teams of five men worked together. A rider on a straining horse roped and held the bellering captive still. Three men dragged the protesting animal to the ground while the fifth man used a branding iron to mark the captive. The brander made most of the younger male animals into steers.
The foreman, a broad shouldered man in his late thirties named, Jim Bridgers, realizing he had visitors, moseyed his sorrel over to the three riders. Drifter sat admiring the sure-footed horse with a blazed face.
“Mr. Lee, didn’t know you were in this part of the country.”
Drifter was not inclined to make small talk. “See you’re putting my brother’s brand on a bunch.”
“Figure we’ll have a fair-sized herd come spring. In fact if these men will stay with me, we might move to new water and fresh grass.”
“Guess we’d better go somewhere by ourselves and powwow,” Drifter said.
“You bring any pay?”
Drifter had picked up a fairly large roll of greenbacks from one of the dead stage people. “Figure I can pay the men enough they can buy smokes and clothing. My brother’ll settle up when the cattle are delivered. Any trouble?”
“None,” Bridgers said. “Oh, occasionally a Mexican or Injun rides in. We feed them, and they ride out.”
“Bunch of Mescaleros gathering in a canyon in the Guadalupes.”
Bridgers rolled a smoke. His big hands held the paper without a quiver. “Must be trouble brewing. We keep seeing signs around.”
“What kind of signs?” Drifter knew a few raids would scatter cattle from hell to breakfast.
The foreman scraped a sulfur match on his trousers. Hastily, he touched it to his rolling. “See mostly puffs of smoke comin’ from mountain peaks.” Bridgers knew the Texas brush country.
“You been home lately?” Drifter asked.
“Say, how about we go and find us a cup of java while we beat our gums. Northern should be here by night. By mornin' frost will be on the grass. Gettin’ back to your question, I rode over and saw the woman and kids two nights ago.”
“Still planning on that ranch?” Drifter asked.
“Old woman’s taking care of a hundred or so. Cattle prices should go up with government having to feed all these reservation Indians.”
“This is a sore spot with me, us having to feed all these hostiles. They’ll kill all of us one day soon.”
The foreman stopped talking about Indians and narrowed it down to the Mescalero people. “You Lees got them herded off your part of the country. Trouble is, they’re going to play hell down here along the Border. Been awfully quiet for a few years.”
“Government’s trying to clear Indians out from Canadian border to Mexican. Soldiers at Fort Davis should be able to take care of things.”
Bridgers rolled another before he blew smoke across his hot coffee to cool it. “Not much those black sons-of-bitches can do right now.”
“Why’s that?” Drifter asked.
“Most of them are west of El Paso helpin’ Cook contain runaways from San Carlos.”
Drifter despaired at getting the Davis bunch riled up enough to chase the Mescaleros out of the Guadalupes. “Come spring, Apaches’ll start drifting back onto our New Mexico range.”
“You and your brother are doing right well with this Texas beef,” Bridgers stated.
“Comanches like to ate us up before we moved from Texas hill country around Jacksboro. Now if we can drive the Mescaleros out, we can drift cattle to where Government is feedin’ Indians from here to Montana.”
“Depends on if we can keep Texas Indians from stealin’ us blind. Woman and me get our spread going good, we can supply you cheaper than way you’re doin’ it now.”
Drifter saw the possibility. When he started to speak again, he looked up from his coffee. Three men dressed in dingy white slickers were coming in fast.
He asked quietly, “Jim, you know who our company is?”
Bridgers turned his head, “Guess we’re going to find out.”
The leader of the three pulled his horse to a sliding stop and dismounted. The other two stayed mounted. Drifter noticed they kept their hands on uncovered pistols. For a minute when they flashed the hammered Mexican coins made into a Texas Ranger badge, he thought they had come to arrest him and his men.
“Help you?” he asked in a voice that showed no emotions.
“My name’s Arden, Captain Arden, Texas Rangers.” The speaker’s steely-blue eyes showed no fear. His bronzed face spoke of many hours under a Texas sun.
“Help you?” Borders asked.
“Telegram came into stage way station. Apaches robbed a coach and mutilated all the dead passengers.”
“Sure it was Apaches?” Drifter asked.
“Used Apache arrows branded with Mescalero sign. Horrible part, they cut off a baby’s head.”
“Sorry bunch of bastards,” Drifter growled. “Anything we can do to help?”
“Rangers are spread pretty thin with all this trouble with Indians and Mexicans. Fort Davis can’t help. Can you give us a hand?”
“What do you want?” Drifter asked. He did not want to betray himself by being too elated.
“Bring your men. We should be able to handle this ourselves.”
“I’ll leave four men here to take care of these cattle; rest of us will go with you.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN*
The Ranger captain rode in front of the trotting animals. They trailed pack horses and mules carrying enough supplies to last two or three weeks. Bacon, flour, salt and sacks of dried beans were all they needed to cook in their frying pans.
Arden told Drifter, “We can live well off things we kill. Pack too much, we’ll never catch them murderers.”
“You’ll never know how much I want to catch them thievin’ Injuns.”
“Something personal?” the captain asked.
“’Bout stole me and my brother out of our cattle business. Them and those damn nesters and Mexicans.”
It worried the captain some riding with a man with a personal grievance. He’d noticed sometimes it was hard for a man to be objective in a battle. Could get him and his men killed when they had to decide how to cut their cards. Apaches might fight harder against a bitter enemy.
What worried the captain worse was on the second day, they started seeing smoke signals. They rode below barren mountains covered with a little grass and brush. Someone was living in them who knew how to make Indian signals.
“Looks like Apaches,” he told Drifter. The two men being bosses, it was natural they ride together. The captain made sure his two men rode front flanks.
“Looks like it’s goin’ to be hard to surprise them,” Drifter said. “Me and my two men noticed a canyon on the north side of the Guadalupes. Reckon we could split and come on them from both sides.”
The captain thought it over for a few minutes. “Wouldn’t they see us.”
“Not if we came in from the west at night.”
“You know the country well enough?”
Drifter nodded he did. “Tell you what,” the captain said. “We’ll make camp on the east trail. Build us a big fire, and then after dark, you and ten of your men ride around and cut off the west entrance.”
“Take us most of the night,” Drifter warned.
“Believe that will be our plan. Apaches hardly ever attack at night. Some kind of superstition they have about them condemning their enemies havin’ to wander around in the darkness forever.”
“Same thing about mutilating their enemies. They believe whatever body parts an enemy leaves this world without, they have to go through the hereafter the same way.”
“Heard the only reason they’ll mutilate is if they’re riled up enough. You know of any reason why they carved the stagecoach people up?”
Drifter didn’t want to tell too much. Someday he might have to repeat his lies. “Heard some surrendering Apaches were shot down by Cavalry in New Mexico.”
“Think they were getting even?”
Drifter played dumb. “Might have been.”
“Well we’ll teach them murderers not to do that again.” Drifter was glad the captain felt that way.



CHAPTER
Lobo’s Apaches settled down for a winter’s rest. His group besides women and children consisted of over a hundred warriors. He was glad Apaches would gather around a successful leader.
Dull Knife kept to his warm dwelling. Instead of using force to keep his white woman a prisoner, he had been gentle with her. The widow he had abandoned was still bitter. Every time she had a chance, she would jab the new woman with a sharp stick.
Dull Knife got gratitude by knocking the Apache woman in the mouth. The last time he had made love, Roxane had helped him. It was not near as exciting, but he enjoyed her longer. All he did was a minimum of chores so he could stay with this golden-haired woman.
Fierce Eagle was constantly on the alert. He rode above the pines so he could watch the desert country better. Smoke signals kept telling of riders coming northward.
The afternoon the young rider saw a large party coming from the east, he raced his pony back to camp. Anxiety made him urge his horse to travel faster.
Throwing himself through the hide covering the opening, he awoke his father from a sound nap. With winter keeping the older man inside, he had tired himself pleasuring Canor more than usual.
“Trouble?” Lobo asked his son.
“White-eyes camp at canyon entrance.”
“You think they know we’re here?”
“They looked for tracks.”
“How many?” the wide-awake leader asked.
“Forty or fifty.”
Lobo hated to leave this warm camping place. “Still looking like snow?”
“Anytime,” Fierce Eagle said. He looked up when Apache Rose came through the entrance to bring a savory dish of cottontails. Heat built up within him until he could hardly contain himself. When he took her in his arms, she knew what he wanted.
“You could take me now,” she told him. Being in Lobo’s presence did not bother the beautiful young lady whose feminine arms were hard as steel.
“Not until after the purity rites.”
“They have to be done in the summer.”
Fierce Eagle said, “Ussen would punish us if we disobey his rules.”
Lobo interrupted. “You think we should abandon camp tonight?”
Gently pushing the beautiful maiden away, Fierce Eagle answered. “We should take our belongings and hide in the brush.”
“I hate to disturb our people. If no enemy comes they’ll be angry.”
“Better they are angry than dead,” Fierce Eagle grunted.
Apaches again became as quail scattering before a hawk’s shadow.
Dull Knife and his white woman led the party ordered to move loose horses and mules. The couple still had trouble understanding each other. All Roxanne knew was someone was coming who scared these Apaches very much.
“Maybe I and my dead husband do have friends,” she muttered loud enough for her Apache lover to hear. He carried her before him in the Apache saddle. His bare knees caressed her body.
Although she was reconciled to the intercourse the young brave forced on her, she mourned her husband’s death. In fact, Dull Knife sometimes was so considerate, she found herself responding to his lovemaking. Besides, she knew having one man who would keep the other men away might save her life.
“Quiet or Mescaleros will kill you for betraying them.” Dull Knife knew he was letting his penis rule his brain. By all rights he should have turned this foreign woman over to the squaws to torture. All grown captive men and most women, died.
With the help of Dull Knife’s abandoned widow and his mother they drove the horses and mules before them. Leaving the steep canyon, they crossed a pine-covered ridge and found another canyon leading into a box canyon. Silent guards with loaded rifles sat silently in the dense underbrush. Without these animals Dull Knife knew their warriors would be hopelessly crippled.
While the guards kept watch, Fierce Eagle led ten seasoned warriors back to where he though the attackers would attack. When snow started falling hard, he thought he had made a mistake. Almost ready to call his men in to go over the mountain, he heard steel-covered horse hooves striking rocks.
A racoon’s call alerted the warriors. Riders were coming.
Drifter’s muffled voice carried to Fierce Eagle. “We got ‘em boys. They’re napping.”
Fierce Eagle started remembering. “Where had he heard that voice?”
Drifter and his men dismounted. Seasoned veterans of other fights, they knew how to move without making unnecessary noises.
“Look at all these wickiups,” Drifter said.
When Cherokee Joe answered, Fierce Eagle knew two of these men were those who had followed Manuelito’s group since the lawyer and his son died. The young Apache’s blood boiled with hatred.
“We got these dirty Redskins,” Drifter whispered. “Fire into their shelters.”
Fierce Eagle watched bursts of exploding gun powder. Lead whistled making thuds when it struck into the shelters. Gun smoke rose into the fresh, clean falling snow. Pungent odors reached Fierce Eagle and his men.
“Funny they aren’t running,” Drifter told Cherokee Joe. “Wonder if they’re all dead?”
Fierce Eagle made the sound of a marauding panther. A shower of silent arrows rained down on the firing men. The first assault brought cries from six hit attackers.
“Rack the canyon walls with lead,” Drifter ordered.
When the volley of shots ceased, again the panther cried. Another rain of arrows came down on Drifter’s men.
“We can’t see them devils, Drifter,” Scar Face whispered.
“Let’s get out of here.” Drifter whispered loud enough for his two men to hear.
“Wonder if any of the others are alive?” Cherokee Joe was the only one of the three who ever thought of others. Perhaps it was the Cherokee blood in him, Drifter thought. .
“Let them take care of themselves,” the leader ordered.
Sliding down into the stream bed, the three used the steep bank to protect themselves from silent arrows. They were out of range when they scrambled over the bank and found their horses.
Fierce Eagle didn’t try to pursue. “We help our people build shelters at Pine Springs after White-eyes leave our country.”
About dawn, Drifter and his two men found their way back to camp to find Apaches had attacked with knives. Three dead bodies were all that remained.
“Let’s get out of here,”Drifter ordered.
“Others may live at the Apache camp,” Cherokee Joe protested.
“You think we’re going back into that Apache she-bag you’re crazy.” The three men rode leaving a plain trail in the clean, virgin snow. The light of day allowed them to see smoke signals on the mountains.
“Mountains are crawlin’ alive with Injuns,” Scar Face said. “Farther we can get from them better I’ll like it.”
They never caught up with the others until they reached the cattle camp. .
Drifter did not speak to the glowering foreman. He and his two men dished up three bowls of steaming beans. Pouring coffee, they pulled biscuits out of a black oven and ate noisily.
First to finish, Drifter turned to Bridgers. “Seen anything of the Texas Rangers?”
Bridgers shook his head. “They disappeared when we pulled camp. Reckon they might still be fighting Mescaleros?”
CHAPTER
Fierce Eagle stood on a snow-covered peak alertly watching for movement on the panorama of whiteness stretching out below him. His namesake, a white-headed eagle calling for its mate, soared over him.
The warrior’s long black hair fought against the red band around his head. It troubled him that no smoke signal had told of sighting the three Texas Rangers. He knew they were still in these mountains.
Another pressing problem filled Fierce Eagle’s mind. . Apache Rose’s scents of womanhood let him know she was ready for mating. Every instinct told him to take her for his wife. Every tribal law told him to wait until after the purification rite. This had been the custom of his people for centuries.
Dull Knife joined him in his vigilant watch for the enemy. “Better take your woman before one of these drifting warriors takes her from you.”
“I follow the customs of our fathers,” he answered stubbornly. “Ussen gave us his laws for a reason.”
“What valid reason could there be for waiting until summer for marriage?” Dull Knife had taken the English woman without seeking guidance. Their union was a thing of pure delight for him.
“There is no corn pollen in winter to sprinkle for fertility,” Fierce Eagle said.
“What difference could that possibly make?”
Defiantly, Fierce Eagle stood up to his friend. “Perhaps a summer marriage gives the chance of a spring baby.”
“What difference could that possibly make?” Dull Knife asked again. Although he prayed to Ussen, he seldom asked for or accepted guidance.
“Babies born when there is little food for the mother shrivel up and die.”
“Sometimes diseases are more prevalent in the warmer weather. Paralysis cripples babies in the summer.”
Fierce Eagle could see there was no use arguing. “Are our people about settled into their new homes?”
“Our people should not have to drag around in the snow,” Dull Knife growled. “There are warm caves for those who will live in them. Most who don’t have tepees build brush shelters.”
“Caves are too damp for our people’s delicate lungs that are used to constant dryness.”
“Tepees from buffalo hides are best for winter,” Dull Knife said, “but what buffaloes our enemies, the Comanches have not killed, White-eyes with their big guns are killing for their hides.”
Fierce Eagle grew angry. “Lipan Apaches from the east report the plains run red with buffalo blood. Birds come in black droves to feed on the carcasses after crows have pecked out their eyes. When we can capture wagons we will make more tepees from canvass.” Some of the warriors coming in wore white blouses made from this White men’s material. Buckskin was becoming scarce.
“We fight,” Dull Knife swore. “As long as there is one mountain crag to hide us, we fight.”
“The Quaker who taught at Blazer’s Mill used to read out of a Black Book.”
“I remember,” Dull Knife said.
“He read, ‘Pray that the time of fighting does not come in the winter.’ Now I know why this strange Jesus spoke these words. Winter is no time to be dragging women and children around in these mountains.”
“No longer will the low land hide us,” Dull Knife said. “I wish we could return to the old ways. See all this land south of here where little snow falls? White men use very little of it, but still they kill us when we return to our winter dwellings.”
Fierce Eagle turned his thoughts away from the old days. “Where could the three Texas Rangers be? Surely we could see them if they move around in our mountains.”
While the two friends watched, Captain Arden and his two rangers rested in a cavern big enough to hide their horses. A pot of dried beans boiled on a banked campfire. Smoke grew invisible after it filtered through shrub juniper growing at the cave entrance.
The captain gave some thought to his two subordinate officers. Roberto Crawford’s wiry English father had married his Mexican wife before the War. He was the steadier of the two.
Red McFarland was a rawboned giant, son of immigrants from Ireland. He would and could fight, but the captain knew he would tear off on a tangent that was not always safe.
What the captain liked about Red was he’d prospected for gold in these western mountains since he was fourteen. After his mother died of typhoid, his father could not stay in one place for any length of time.
Although Arden was captain, a loose bond of friendship bound the three together. None minded disputing the others’ decisions. “Might as well eat,” McFarland said.
“Might not have another chance if we run into those Mescaleros.” The captain asked, “Red, you know this country. Where would be the best place for these Injuns to hide?”
McFarland thought before he spoke. “Close to one of these peaks. Apache who know the country can keep watch for miles in all direction.”
“You think we could scare them by killing a few?”
McFarland thought it over. “Three of us are running a terrible risk here by ourselves.”
“Thought we’d scout a little so we’d know what to tell the Cavalry when we see them.”
“Wish we had white men,” Cawford said. “Buffalo soldiers might prove to be all right, but them Niggers were slaves before this War ended.”
The captain said, “Don’t think it’s a Black man’s place to be acting like a white man, but some of them men fought for both the Blue Bellies and our side. Their main sergeant was an aide to Colonel Nat Wilkerson. Best commanding officer I ever served under.”
Crawford spoke up. “The other Colonel Wilkerson is suttler for Fort Davis. They say him and this Nigger sergeant are close as brothers.”
“Wouldn’t want no stinkin’ Black for a brother,” Crawford growled. “Dad bought him a few to help raise cotton in the Valley.”
Captain changed the subject. He didn’t tell Crawford but he would about as soon have a Black as a Mexican for a brother. Not that he considered Crawford a Mexican. A white father made all the difference in the world.
“What I want us to do,” he told the other two, “is scare hell out of these Apaches and get out of here with our heads attached to our bodies.”
“What do you have in mind?” McFarland asked.
“Thought we might waylay a squaw or some old man, just kill a few right under their noses to put a little fear in them.”
“We find us a squaw, we might all use her a spell,” McFarland said. The captain’s face didn’t change expression a bit.
Although Lobo didn’t approve, Canor insisted on going away from camp when she had to empty her bowels. He knew Mescaleros were that way. They would empty their bladders close to camp, other than that, they would travel as far as two miles.
Except for under the north side of trees, the snow was gone. The other women were busy when she felt the urge. Shyly keeping herself unseen from any of her menfolk, she hurried to a place where a giant, jagged rock cut off view of the camp.
She enjoyed getting away from the children for awhile.
After her walk, she squatted. For a moment she thought someone watched. Listening, she heard no warning from birds or animals. Finishing, she cleansed herself with cedar bark and started to leave.
A large arm around her neck cut off her breath. When she tried to call out, she found a hand over her open mouth. Terror paralyzed her. Her captor was a hated white man! When he pressed his body against hers from behind, she almost lost her breakfast of dried mescal bread and venison. .
McFarland carried the struggling woman to the cave. Twice he had to slap her when her teeth sank into his arm. . In his struggle his boot heel hit a sharp rock that caused an indentation in the hard leather. Candor bent her head to keep the blood out of her mouth, when she did, she noticed the odd indention in the track her captor left in silt left by the last rain water.
“You she devil,” he said, “it’ll go twice as hard with you.”
His two companions were sprawled on a sheltered rock to spy out the enemy stronghold. The lawman who should have been concerned with protecting women, became engrossed in his rape. Not giving a thing, she fought stubbornly until she slipped out of his grasp. Her garments stayed in his hands
After he got between her and the cave entrance, he enjoyed looking at her nude figure. Bearing children had but increased the beauty of her full breasts.
Naked, the man sought to seize his prey. She fought.
“You bitch. If it hadn’t been so long since I had a women, I’d kill you.” He overcame her by brutal force even though her fingernails and teeth inflicted great damage. After he had pent his desires, Crawford came in to warm.
“See you caught us one,” he said. Without giving the woman a chance to recuperate, he was on her.
“You hurt me,” she cried out in Apache. He did not understand or care.
Captain came in while the second man sought to finish his less violent attack.
“Wish you two would have waited. Soon as dark comes, we better head south.”
“Think they’ll find us?” McFarland asked.
“They’ll come looking for their squaw. By the way she is dressed, probably a chief’s wife.”
“A little old, but she has plenty of fire. You want to try some?”
The captain remembered his position. Although he didn’t condemn his men’s action, he did not succumb to his desires.
“Best tie her,” he ordered after Crawford finished and lay panting.
McFarland picked up a good sized rock. Without discussing the matter, he bashed her brains over the cave’s rocky floor.
“You needn’t have done that,” the captain said sadly.
“Less of these vermin we leave alive, better off this world will be.”
“Better keep guard,” Captain ordered.
The two men took turns watching outside the cave entrance.
“Come here,” McFarland told the other two men.
A low keening filled the air. Apaches rent the wilderness air calling her name. Rock cliffs echoed from the grief the Apaches showed for the loss of a loved one. Had it not been the threshold to the cave was a giant sheet of sandstone, they would have found her tracks.
Captain was first to put on his white Stetson. “We better get out of here before the moon comes up.”
Like guilty dogs slinking from their kill, they wrapped their horses’ hooves with pieces cut from their saddle blankets. All they needed was the sound of steel horeshoes on rocks to bring Apache wrath down on them.
“Kill yourselves if they come close to catching us.” Captain had seen what these Apache women did to captive white men.
When morning came, the fugitives were bedded down under a sheltering ledge. The rising sun struck the sleeping men’s face. Angry puffs of smoke marked the distant peaks. Mecaleros asked for other Apaches to watch for three white men wearing battered Mexican coins for badges. An alert warrior had seen them leave the Guadalupes.









CHAPTER
When Fierce Eagle found his mother’s mutilated body, he rent his doeskin blouse she had just finished making him. With his hunting knife, he cut huge strands of his long, black hair he prized so much. After his initial out burst of grief, he searched the hard rock surface. All he found was the smeared print of a boot with a damaged heel.
Lobo stayed in camp prostate with his grief. A chorus of keening women filled the air with mourning. Because of her gentle, helpful ways, Canor was beloved by all.
Apache Rose came to her grieving lover. Stroking him with her hands, she said, “After I prepare your mother for burial and our people lay her in the grave, we marry.”
“Such a marriage would not be in the custom of our people.”
The slender, young maiden barely in her teens, wept. “It grieves me, my beloved, that I must be so bold. Fierce Eagle, these are not normal times. Our fathers will soon take all you men who are able to fight to war.”
“Already father and Loco prepare the men. Hear their war cries as they drink mescal and chew peyote. They wish to catch the White-eyes celebrating the Christ child’s birth.”
“Child of the Water would not have sent us to kill and rape without provocation,” Fierce Eagle said. “This Christ of the White-eyes and Mexicans shows no mercy. I vow to bring vengeance on those who raped and killed my mother in such an inhuman way.”
“You must take me for your wife tonight so you will leave seed.”
“Come, let’s let the others know mother is ready for burial.”
“Then you will marry me?”
“I will ask your father how many ponies he wants.”
CHAPTER
When hot desert winds blew from deserts across the Rio Grande, Lobo and his small army of braves waited for a wagon train. For two months smoke signals had told them the mining equipment and supplies were coming on wagons from Indianola. Spanish ships transported necessities to this Texas port for overland shipment to their enterprises in Chihuahea, Mexico.
The supplies that interested the Mescaleros most were a shipment of Sharps repeating rifles. Apaches along the southern corridor needed these weapons along with boxes of ammunition. These fierce mountain and desert fighters of the Southwest wanted to continue living where eagles soared.
Meanwhile, Fierce Eagle and Apache Rose lived an idyllic life. While the rest of Texas sweltered, summer rains made an oasis of green grass in this mountain retreat.
“This is the spot where your mother gave birth to you,” grieving Lobo told his son.
Fierce Eagle dressed only in knee-high moccasins turned up at the toes. Dismounting from his horse, he lay on the soft layer of pine needles and turned his body to the sacred north, south, east and west. His wife swollen with their first child watched the sacred ceremony.
“I welcome the chance to give birth where our people lived until White-eyes drove us out,” she said.
Dull Knife went through a similar ritual in the place where his mother squatted to give him birth.
Roxane did not understand, but she sat with bowed head until her husband finished. She seldom thought of her first husband anymore. This savage who called her his wife satisfied her completely. She realized how ridiculous her situation was. Long years of schooling in England had not prepared her for this barbaric but lovely land she had learned to love.
Apache Rose knew the white woman was not only adjusting to Apache life, she was enjoying this rugged but free life. “If anyone had told me I would be on a mountain watching two naked men groveling around in the earth, I would have told them they were crazy.”
“Do you miss your former life?” Apache Rose asked.
“I seldom think about it anymore. My world is the world of mountain breeze filled with pinyon smoke scenting the wind.”
“You have no regrets?”
“Only that Dull Knife has not filled my womb with his child. Everyday when he goes from our lodge, I know he will not return.”
“We are at war. Life can end quickly and abruptly.”
“Would it not be best to live with the white man?”
Apache Rose’s black eyes flashed with anger. “We would very much like to live with the white man. Some of their ways we would learn. Some of our ways we would teach them. It will not work. They can never accept us as humans.”
“You have tried?”
“We have tried. They put us on reservations hardly big enough for one family. Instead, they expect us to make a living where no white man could ever live. Where there is bad water and no firewood, they place us.”
“Can’t you reason with them?” Roxane could not believe her people could make other people subservient to them. Little did she know about black-skinned people who broke their backs to make fortunes for white-skinned people from a cooler climate.
“There is no reasoning.” Dull Knife ran a comb of twigs through his straight, black hair. His eyes flashed anger.
Lobo spoke as he stared over the sea of grass rippling across the eastern plains. “The only reason the White-eye knows is the reason of the Apache and white man’s weapons. They understand an arrow sticking from their back. Bullet holes in their guts brings them to their senses.”
Far to the east, buzzards stopped their circling over carrion. A hunting hawk stopped its circular search and flew directly toward a mountain summit.
“They come,” Fierce Eagle said calmly. Every Apache in sound of his voice knew what was coming.
“Should we go and wait?” Dull Knife asked.
Loco showed he was still chief. “We will go tonight while they sleep.”
“Are you sure they will sleep before they get here?” Dull Knife asked.
“There is a steep mountain grade between here and there. They will sleep.”
“You have made plans?” Fierce Eagle asked.
“When the lead wagon reaches the mountaintop, wagons behind it will draw very close together. My warriors will climb on the last one and work their way forward.”
“And Loco’s warriors?”
“They will attack with arrows where the lead team is slowed by the steep grade.”
“Why arrows?”
“Bows shooting arrows are harder to locate than pistols and rifles that make flashes of fire in the dark.”
Fierce Eagle was pleased to find his father could plan in spite of his grief. . For himself, sometimes he found himself dwelling on his mother’s death. Her brutal rape and more brutal beating intensified his desire to totally rip the three lawmen limb from limb, eyeball from eye socket, tongue from mouth. The two would reach their final resting place without any intact body parts. Until he found the two guilty men, he would help kill and mutilate all White-eyes who crossed Apache land.
The waiting Apaches ate their evening meal heated over a hidden fire. They didn’t want to alert those on the lumbering freight wagons of approaching doom.
“It is time to go,” Lobo said quietly. Roxane and Apache Rose clung briefly to their young husbands.
Only a rim of a dying sun sent up red rays of light into a gathering of thunderclouds in the west. “It may rain,” Apache Rose said.
“Good. Those on the wagon train will not be able to hear us good,” her husband told her.
Quietly the braves rode their horses into the forest of live oak and juniper. Mesquite and sumac bushes gave them almost complete protection until they reached a shallow stream. The horses drank before they went silently to the place of ambush.
Before dark completely blocked their views, the braves under Lobo’s command were positioned where the last wagon would wait to begin its ascent. The hidden men could hear sounds those in the wagon train made. A guitar sang out into the lonely night. Three men quarreled over a game of chance. Occasionally women’s voices broke the noises of camp.
Fierce Eagle awoke when fierce lightning and thunder released a deluge. He was not surprised at the intensity of this mountain storm.
“At least we have no clothing to get wet,” he whispered to Dull Knife. None of the braves wore anything but their long, curled moccasins.
When dim light broke over the eastern hills, those in the wagon train began to prepare themselves for travel. The fierceness of the storm had abated to a long and steady drizzle.
Fierce Eagle heard muffled voices speak in soft Spanish. “Think we can make it over wet ground?”
Another voice answered. “Almost solid rock from here to the top. Rain should keep the animals cool.”
Drivers used the crack of whips to get their animals moving. First came teams of horses with smaller animals leading. Next, came the mule teams. Behind them came the stronger but slower oxen teams hitched to the heavier loads. Two wheeled oxen carts came before the vehicles carrying the women and children. Last came herds of sheep and cattle driven by those trained by a lifetime of taking care of animals.
“We will feast on these animals,” Dull Knife muttered.
Lobo waited until animals at the summit had to rest. Raising his hand, he sprang into action. Frightened women riding and walking in the rear found their throats cut before they could cry out a warning.
Lobo and his band of braves left no survivors. Blood gushed from their victims’ throats. Finishing with one vehicle, they swiftly worked their way up the mountain road.
Loco lowered his raised hand. Drivers dropped their reins and tried to pull Mescalero-marked arrows from their chests. Few knew what hit them. First down was the lead freight wagons. The narrow mountain road was blocked.
Mass chaos drove wagons together. Frightened teams tried to flee from the barrage of piercing missiles. Lobo and his men worked rapidly. Slashing with their long knives, they jumped from wagon to wagon. Always they moved toward where the melee of bunched wagons stopped forward movement.
Pawing horses began to leave the road. Wagons plummeted downward into masses of pine trees. Some reached the mountain stream before they stopped rolling.
When it seemed the din could not get any worse, naked, shrieking Apache women began to run off the loose stock. Piercing the quiet mountain air with their horrible shrieks, braves on horseback began to gather up weapons and ammunition.
The petrified members of the wagon train began to fire their weapons. Lead filled the air, but few slugs reached their elusive targets that began to fade into heavy timber with struggling mules carrying heavy loads of weapons and ammunition. Apache herdsmen herded loose livestock before them.
Only the moans of dying humans were louder than the shrieks of expiring animals. When the Apaches rode away, there were none to tell the black soldiers from Fort Davis. Only arrows with Mescalero markings accused the attacker who rode away with not only supplies, but the dingy white canvas that had covered neatly-loaded vehicles.
CHAPTER
Drifter and his crew moseyed the last herd of cattle north toward the Tulerosa Basin. Except for a night guard, he and his men had spent most of the night in a bar close to Fort Davis.
This morning, Scar Face was in the Davis County jail.
“Funny thing to me,” Drifter told Cherokee Joe, “the sheriff took them Nigger soldiers’ words over my men. Hadn’t been that black son-of-a-bitch trying to drink at a bar with white men, Scar Face would’ve never shot him.”
Cherokee Joe was growing tired of the tirade. “There are places where Indians aren’t welcomed,” he said calmly.
“Ain’t like you don’t have a white mother.”
“From the looks of them, ain’t like some of them Buffalo soldiers don’t have some white blood in them.”
“Shouldn’t matter. A jury will let a white man who kills a black off with time spent in jail.” Drifter continued their argument as they prodded reluctant cows up the steep grade.
“Jesus Christ, Almighty,” he exclaimed.
Cherokee Joe stayed a little behind to prevent two range bulls from a vicious fight. So far the two had done their fighting by pawing dirt and bellowing insults.
“Trouble?” Cherokee Joe asked.
“Bad Injun trouble. . Buzzards should fatten up considerably.”
Cattle spilled over the mountain and began grazing northward to where they would turn toward the Guadalupe pass. The lead cow cast a frightened eye over the carnage laying before her. Bellering when the scent of blood rose in the mountain air, she kicked up her heels and ran. The stampede was on. Both cattle and free horses put their tails in the air and bolted.
Cherokee Joe no longer had to try and separate fighting bulls. Instead, he had to scramble to keep from getting trampled.
Within moments the massed herd of cattle and horses passed over the crest and formed a sea of animals fighting to get through the bloody carnage. Buzzards, heavy with gorging, flapped lazily to trees so they could return and continue their feast.
Drifter shouted to his riders. “Let ‘em go. We will catch them when they spread out to graze.”
The four white-socked draft horses pulling the chuck wagon were last to come over the mountain. Drifter and Cherokee Joe grabbed their bridles before they could go berserk and run after the disappearing herd.
“Stop by the spring and fix us some chow,” the boss told the cook.
“Stench is too bad,” the old Mexican said.
“Go past the trees and pack your water to cook.” Drifter was beginning to get sick at his stomach. He had not seen anything this bad in the War.
“You goin’ back for soldiers?” Cherokee Joe asked.
“I’m needed here. . You go round up some of those Niggers who call themselves soldiers. Maybe this time some of their officer will make them get off their cowardly asses and fight Apaches.”
Cherokee Joe knew there was no use arguing with a man like Drifter. “Heard those Buffalo soldiers have fought some mighty fine battles against them Plains Indians.”
Veins swelled on Drifter’s forehead. “Go on. Take care of business. Maybe now they’ll chase those red devils off my brother’s grazing land.”
Cherokee Joe stopped by the chuck wagon for a bite before he rode the ten miles back to the Fort. On the way he thought about why the Mexican wagon train had come in from the north. He knew mountains along the Rio Grande prevented traveling close to the rushing stream. The half-breed knew the freight wagons carrying heavy mining equipment had traveled a meandering course around mountains until they could turn south and cross the Rio Grande into Mexico at an ancient Mexican pueblo the early Spaniards had called, Presidio.
For a time he thought about how fate worked. Those driving the heavily-laden vehicles had their choice of two routes. . The people killed in the Apache attack might still be alive if they’d changed their route or driven a little faster.
He knew Apaches enough to know the attack was not a thing of chance. By all likelihood those devils had lain up in the cool mountains all summer just plotting how they were going to waylay those poor devils.
There had been too many deaths for the half-breed. The judge and his son, the eleven Apache youths, the stagecoach people, and now these freighters. .
Last night Scar Face had killed senselessly. The young Buffalo Soldier had merely sidled up to the bar and started talking. He had been out west with his company. They’d been called on to fight over in southwestern New Mexico where there was trouble at a stagecoach station. Apaches had been attacking vehicles going through a place called Doubtful Canyon.
Scar Face had started the fight. “You’re making this whole thing up. There ain’t no place called Doubtful.”
“Suh,” the young soldier had been real polite, “it’s over where New Mexico and Arizona Territory comes together. They called the canyon Doubtful ‘cause it’s doubtful any traveler goin’ in will ever come out.”
Scar Face was drunk. “You a Nigger calling me a white man a liar?”
“Naw suh, ain’t callin’ yo no liar, suh. Jus’ way it was explained to me.”
The Black had no time to unhostler his big Army pistol. Scar Face’s first shot turned him completely around. The second shot caught him in the head just before he reached the floor. To Cherokee Joe, the killing was completely senseless. These Buffalo Soldiers were fighting for something that probably would not benefit them a whole lot. Few of their people were taking up homesteading. Government wouldn’t give them the land.
Besides the killings Cherokee Joe knew about, there were deaths all the way across Apacheria almost to California. Damn, he thought, someday the United States was going to have to stop all this killing. White men like Drifter were mostly to blame. Apaches weren’t bad people. They just had their backs to a wall. They had to either fight or be killed like the young Black soldier was last night.
Cottonwood trees at the Fort’s entrance drooped under the summer heat. If Cherokee Joe hadn’t been afraid of Drifter he would have stopped and watched the soldiers drill a little longer. Thing of it was, if he didn’t get the Cavalry chasin’ after the Mescaleros, the New Mexico ranch land would never belong to white men like Drifter’s brother.
No one took particular notice when the half-breed came to headquarters. Cowboys came onto the fort grounds quite often. Shy and awkward around military people, they would have been more at ease hazing cattle. Cherokee didn’t let these Bluecoats with their gold buttons intimidate him much. During the War he had been around mostly men in gray, but once in awhile they brought some of the Northern bastards in as prisoners-of-war.
“Help you?” Recent West Point graduate, Lieutenant C.L. Cooper dressed in a shiny new uniform, asked.
Cherokee Joe began to tell his story. “Bunch of dead civilians on the pass,” he said.
“Know who they are?” Hearing about dead civilians started the eager new officer’s heart to pumping. He knew he and his men would have to ride out pretty soon.
“From the looks of things, seems to be a freight train carrying equipment to some mines in Mexico.”
“We’ve been waiting to escort them to the Border. They’re overdue since last week. How many died?”
“From the looks of things, none of them lived.” Cherokee kept his eyes searching while he talked. He was particularly interested in finding where Scar Face was being held.
“Captain Carpenter’s gone to see about a shooting incident in town last night. Guess it would be best if you told this to Colonel Grierson. We were going to ride and find what was holding the freight wagons up. Hadn’t been we were scouting west of here we would have escorted the train through these mountains.”
“Apaches pretty hostile?”
“About as hostile as they have ever been,” the officer said. “Come into the office of the Commanding Officer of the 10th Cavalry and tell what you have seen.”
Colonel Benjamin H. Garrison sat behind a big mahogany desk smoking a cigar. Seasoned by the Civil War and battles with the Plains Indians, the colonel had lost all of his West Point glitter. Answering the lieutenant’s knock, he said, “Door is open.”
Cherokee noticed the two flags on the colonel’s desk before he saw the officer.
“Man here says there is trouble at the pass.” The lieutenant waved Cherokee in before he stood at attention before the commanding officer’s desk.
The colonel took a moment to invite the two men to have a seat before he asked anymore questions. Greirson sat ramrod straight. “Have a cigar,” he invited the two men.
The lieutenant graciously declined, but Cherokee held out his hand. “Believe I will. Bull Durham gets mighty tasteless sometimes.”
“You been on the trail long?” the colonel asked.
“Seems like since I was born,” the dusty rider answered. He crossed his boot with a spur on over his other leg. “We’re taking a herd of cattle to the Tulerosa.”
“Been some Indian trouble up your way lately?”
“Yes sir, some Apaches jumped reservation and went on the warpath.”
“Hear some Texans are crowding them off with their cattle and sheep.”
“Guess it would seem that way to some. Land’s free for grazin’ way I understand it.”
Grierson cut off the conversation. “You say a wagon train got waylaid at the pass?”
Cherokee struck a match and puffed until he let a gray cloud of smoke drift across the office ceiling. He watched the swirling netting dip and rise with a slight draft, and thought about the devious complications Drifter was weaving in this savage, new country.
“Colonel, the only thing still alive up there are a bunch of buzzards and crows tearin’ human flesh. The cawing black devils have already ripped the eyeballs out of innocent dead victims.” He would have said more if he hadn’t remembered how Drifter had treated the dead at the stage coach robbing. There hadn’t been much difference.
Turning to the lieutenant, Grierson said softly, “Prepare the men to ride. Think I will go along with you and the captain. Better expect to stay out at least a couple of weeks.”
“If it’s the same with you, I will go over to the store and buy some things,” Cherokee said when he stood up. “Guess the bar is closed.”
“Army has an agreement with the saloon owner. He keeps it closed during duty time. Go ahead to the store. Slow as we are after our western trip, you might catch up with us.”
Cherokee nodded, but he had no intention of catching up with the Cavalry unit. He had other plans. When he walked out on the long veranda, the troops were already mounted and waiting in formation. Grierson came out in field uniform and swung onto a chestnut horse bigger than any other in the unit.
“Prepare your men to move out,” he ordered the captain who rode up on a black horse with a star on its forehead. Captain Louis H. Carpenter was a relaxed officer who wore a hat that showed the scars of many battles. A maverick, the captain had come up through the ranks.
The lieutenant gave the command through the sergeant. “Sergeant Wilkerson, prepare the men to move out.”
Sergeant James Wilkerson,# was a Black solider two years departed from his Liberty, Mississippi home. The leading enlisted man in Company H, Tenth Cavalry, could have easily passed for any darker-skinned people who were accepted in polite Southern society. Broad of shoulder, keen of mind, the product of an Irish sea captain and a mulatto mother generations ago, he preferred to be proud of his ties to black Africa. His equally handsome brothers rode on each side
The deep-throated sergeant’s voice rose loud enough for the troops to hear. “Company H, prepare to ride,” he said in a voice full of generations of Southern white gentlemen breeding black women whose get got gradually whiter.
The bugler who sounded the call to ride out, was also Black. In fact, all the enlisted men in Company H were black. The only white men were the three officers.
Cherokee stood and watched the Cavalry ride across the parade ground and through the fort gate before he moved. Instead of riding down to the suttler’s store, he located the brig by watching for prisoners to come out to do their degrading tasks. He waited long enough to make sure there were no civilians among the prisoners.
Two Black corporal stood with rifles pointed at the prisoners. “You holdin’ a prisoner who shot one of your men?” Cherokee made his question sound very casual.
The corporal stepped back so his rifle was aimed directly at Cherokee’s heart. “Mistah, yo’re standing directly between me and these prisoners. I’d suggest yo move.”
“You ain’t got him?”
“No suh, man he shot was my best friend. Sheriff said he’d
keep the bastard in the Davis County jail until trial.”
“Guess he’s safer there. Sorry your friend was killed, but you Buffaloes better watch yourselves. Only thing hated worse here is these Apaches.”
“I’ll keep it in mind, mister. Only thing is yo ain’t scarin’ me.”
“Didn’t intend to,” Cherokee said as he turned and mounted his horse. “Most of these Texas men did fight for the South.”
Cherokee sat behind a live oak tree and smoked his cigar until dark came. He’d picked up a spare horse and saddle at the livery stable. Without moving his mount, he reached out and stuck his glowing butt onto a sharp twig. Leading his horses, he crept up to where bars covered a small window in the adobe building.
Crouching in tall ragweeds that hid his horses, he gave the call of a whip-poor-will.
“That you?” Scar Face’s voice sounded a little scared.
“I’m taking this window out,” Cherokee said.
“Deputy’s been watching your cigar smoke all afternoon.”
“Guess he’ll watch the glow of its butt. He coming out?”
“Right now he’s got a young woman in there with him.”
“Keep me informed.” Cherokee walked over and tied his lariat to the bars. Mounting his horse, he wrapped the end of his rope around his saddle horn. The horse strained. The bars seemed to give, but nothing happened.
Cherokee let out an oath before he dismounted and tied another rope to the spare horse’s saddle horn and attached it to the bars. This time instead of mounting, he led both animals. His mount obeyed well. The spare horse started to whinny.
“No you don’t,” he said. He used his gloved hand to hold the animal’s mouth.
It took him three times to get the two to pull together. The third time an adobe started crumbling. Within the jail, Scar Face sneezed.
“You all right?” Cherokee was afraid the noise would bring the deputy.
“Dusty in here without any breeze. Get me out before the deputy gets his rocks off.”
“He doin’ it to her?”
“She’s making plenty of noise. Got himself a screamer.”
Although Cherokee could not hear the woman, he was not as cautious. This time when the horses pulled, a section of wall fell out.
Before Scar Face could wiggle out, the two men heard a woman whisper. “Somebody’s leaving.”
The deputy stopped only long enough to speak loud enough for the two men to hear. “Just someone comin’ to get that Nigger killer. About to give up on anyone showing up. Afraid we were goin’ have to hang him. Shut up and make love.”
The escapee chuckled when he mounted. “Seems these people are most grateful to you, Cherokee. Let’s head for home.”

CHAPTER
At first Colonel Grierson thought they would have no trouble catching the Mescaleros. The Apaches made no attempt to cover their trail. Sheep and cattle tracks had horse and mule tracks superimposed over them.
“Lieutenant, I can’t believe they left such a clear trail.”
Sergeant Wilkerson who came here with his white master right after the Civil War was a little wiser to Apache ways. “Colonel, wouldn’t crow about it until we catch them.”
The officer was not used to having an enlisted man talk without permission. Since he had cut his teeth on chasing plains Indians, he was trying to learn all he could about these mountain and desert renegades of the Southwest.
“Sergeant, you been chasing these devils longer than the lieutenant and me, maybe you better explain what you mean.”
“Apaches never do the same thing twice, sir. Best we keep pushing on. Might catch them in a week or two.”
“They’ve had only a day and night start on us. We should catch them before dark.”
The Black sergeant flashed a gleaming-white smile. “Sir, a white man will travel thirty miles and rest his horse. A red devil will travel seventy miles, kill his horse, drink its blood, eat its flesh, and cut himself out another animal to ride.”
“Seems these devils have no feelings at all.”
“Not for animals. To them a horse is merely transportation to where they are goin’. They hardly ever go into battle mounted. You think you have them, they either ambush you or hide so you never know they are around.”
The lieutenant said, “Guess we have a lot to learn.”
When they though they had the Apaches about located, Drifter’s herd had crossed the creek and obliterated the Apaches’ trail.
“Dumb fool,” Grierson said, “he made it so we are going to have to split up to make sure the Apache’s don’t take off on a side trail.”
About sundown, Drifter’s herd plodded along just before them. When the troop caught up with him, Gierson started to give him a chewing out.
“Colonel, me and my men got a long, dry journey to prepare for.”
“Seems pretty green along here,” the officer growled.
“There’s some mighty dry country before we reach the Guadulupes.”
“No water holes?” Grierson was beginning to worry.
“Few. Man has to know where they are. There’s a well at Van Horn.”
“How do these Apaches get through?”
“They’ll pour water in intestines and wrap them around a mule’s neck.”
The officer said, “Seems you just about wiped out those renegade’s tracks. Let us around so we can be sure where they’re headed.”
“Colonel, they haven’t started breaking up yet. They do know you are on their trail.”
“How do you know?” The officer let Drifter know he didn’t approve of the way the cattleman conducted his business.
“They’ve been losing their sheep along. My men have skinned out a few for mutton.”
“How do they know?”
To Drifter’s disgust, the black sergeant cut into the conversation. “Sir, I’ve been noticing flashing light signals along.”
“Guess we better get out of here before they disappear completely.” Grierson motioned for his men to go around Drifter’s herd.
Once they got in the lead where they could see Apache tracks, another concern filled Grierson’s mind. One or two horse tracks followed a few cattle or sheep off to the right or left.
“They’re splitting up,” the sergeant said.
“Splitting up?” Grierson asked.
“They’ll do that, sir. About the time you think you have them, they’ll start disappearing into the brush like a bunch of quail.”
“Now I know why the Arizona troops hire Apaches to guide them. So far the government hasn’t offered us any.”
Wilkerson spoke up. “Sir, with your permission, I been across here once chasin’ Apaches.”
“You learn anything?”
“I learned not to split the force following every side trail, sir.”
“How do you catch up with their forces?”
“They’ll come together somewhere along the trail. Best try to follow a general direction until they regroup.”
“And where will that be?” Grierson was becoming pretty perplexed. “Plains Indians usually stayed in one group.”
Wilkerson knew better than to say too much. He had two strikes against him. He was Black, and he was an enlisted man. If it hadn’t been he wanted to get back to the fort alive, he would have kept his mouth shut.
“Apaches are still fightin’ because they are mighty smart. Their largest army has never been over three hundred if you count squaws and children. They’re guerrillas. Livin’ off the land, they ambush, kill as many enemy as they can, and move on to fight on up the trail. They do this until the enemy is weak enough to finish off, sur.” The black sergeant, when speaking to white officers, hardly ever used his Southern Black accent.
The Cavalry unit left the mountain greenness before they camped for the night. A small stream of water trickled out into the dry grassland broken by another mountain range to the northwest.
“Main trail’s dwindling to nothing,” Grierson grouched. “Guess if things keeps up like this, we’ll be following lizard tracks.”
“Best we get up mighty early and take off, sur,” Wilkerson said. “Before noon tomorrow, it’ll be hot enough to fry a rattlesnake’s gizzard.”
The men built awfully small fires and made very little noise. The howl of coyotes in the distance reminded them there was a hundred miles or more to travel before they would see other people with English names.
Grierson didn’t even pull off his boots. Bedded on a wool Army blanket, he leaned his head against his saddle and contemplated the night sky. Never had he seen such a mess of stars. Their lights blended together into a canopy that stretched from horizon to horizon in all four directions.
He was still awake planning when the cool desert winds started moaning and groaning off the Davis Mountains. The night was almost over before he drifted off into a troubled sleep.
No sooner had he closed his eyes than shrieking, naked Apaches closed in on his home. Flaming arrows set the house on fire. He tried to get his wife to take the children and run into the darkness. She refused to go.
“Sur,” Sergeant Wilkerson whispered, “you goin’ to let the Apaches know where we are.”
“Guess I was having a nightmare. Get the men up so we can pull out soon as first light.”
“Captain has the men up and ready to go soon as they eat a bite. Lieutenant has the men bringing the horses in.”
Spitting cotton and sand out of his mouth, the colonel was surprised to see the cook finish frying salt bacon. Some of the men already had steaming cups of coffee in their hands.
They left camp quietly as mice sneaking past a cat. There were no signs of Apaches, but animal droppings were getting fresher.
Before morning was half over, the trail had dwindled down to four or five horses driving a small flock of sheep. Suddenly this trail also disappeared onto a shelf of flat sandstone.
“Order the men to keep a sharp lookout,” Grierson ordered. “I don’t like the looks of this.”
“Mind if I send a couple to ride our flank?” Wilkerson asked. The officer agreed by nodding his head.
Beauty of a cool desert morning had disappeared into a blazing sun that made familiar objects distort so badly it was impossible to tell what they were until they rode up close. The horses were already looking for water.
“Might be a water hole if the rain reached this far,” Wilkerson said quietly.
“Wish we didn’t have to go into this ravine,” the captain said quietly. He had no desire to spook the enlisted men.
“No other way to get through these rocky hills, sur,” Wilkerson grunted.
The lieutenant volunteered to stay back to help stragglers get their mounts down the steep bank.
The colonel trotted his horse up the dry wash bed and stopped to watch the men. He sat with a heavy Army pistol in his hand. . The men were between him and the last riders.
Suddenly the world seemed to explode. Screaming Apaches were everywhere. Naked warriors grasped at surprised riders who struggled to unsheathe their short cavalry swords. The savages were in the saddle with them before they knew what was happening.
“Damn, men, can’t you fire?” the colonel asked twice.
Men rushed to the rear. A pistol barked and a voice shouted, “Man, you goin’ shoot your own men.”
The battle lasted for only a few minutes. So brief was the encounter, the colonel was surprised to find four of the rear guard lying on their ground without their severed heads by their bodies. The lieutenant was one of the dead.
A fleeing warrior carrying the severed head in his hand, yelled, “For the head of Magnus Coloratum.”
“Sur, they’re apt to regroup and attack again,” Wilkerson said.
“Why didn’t they stay and fight?” the colonel asked.
“They’re Apaches,” the black sergeant said. Only a whirlwind funneling dirt and weeds high into the sweltering air mocked his answer.
“Charge,” the captain said as he tried to find men and horse tracks. Like night creatures there were no signs or sounds of the attackers. An eerie feeling of horror settled over the troop. Death had come from this vast emptiness surrounding them. The killers had not fired a shot.
Colonel Gierson led Company H across hot, desolate country. They rested at Van Horn wells where they soaked up enough water to carry them into the craggy Guadalupe Mountains that towered over them until they climbed the peaks where they could see a desolate panorama of desert cut by a ribbon of green where the Rio Grande ran far to the south. They found no signs of Apaches.


CHAPTER
Grierson and his tired cavalry troop rode into the foothills of the Sacramento Mountains. Footsore and weary they had heard from Mexican sheepherders that this small band of Apaches had straggled into the small reservation assigned them by the U.S. Government.
“Sì, señor,” the old Bosque told Colonel Grierson, “a large war party of Apaches came through Dog Canyon. Many of them were Western Apaches. They carried many things on their mules.”
“Ammunition and guns?” Grierson asked.
“Sì. And much food and supplies. Their animals were so loaded it took them two days to get out of my sight.”
“You know where they went?” the colonel asked.
“They no say. Perhaps they cross the Rio Grande and go to maybe Arizona where many Apaches live.”
“This large group was all that went across here?” Grierson suspected this old shepherd was not as ignorant as he appeared.
The sentinel of the Tularosa Basin took time to roll a cigarette. His tobacco-stained fingers attested to the number he had enjoyed. Before he struck a sulfur match on his tough trousers, he considered how much he should tell these Gringos.
Americanos had never treated his people as nice as had the Apaches. Sure the Indians kicked up trouble once in awhile after they had drunk too much taiswan or mescel. But, this strange bunch of Texans who were bringing large herds of cattle into his country was killing more Mexicans than the Apaches ever had.
“No, señor. There are a few Mescaleros on their reservation in the mountains. They never hurt anything. They raise some corn and squash and keep a few animals for meat. Some of them work at the sawmill for Blazer when he needs them.”
“Gracias,” the colonel said. “you hear anything, you let the soldiers at Fort Stanton know.”
“Oh sì, the Apaches muy feroc. Last winter they kill my amigo and run off many sheep. I will let you know if I hear anything.”
H Company had been on maneuvers for three weary weeks. The men were barely able to keep in their saddles. All they wanted to do was find a place where cool water ran freely and soak their bodies. After some good food not cooked over smoking campfires, they wanted to find women and spend some of their hard-earned money.
Nothing looked more innocent than Lobo and his small band working small patches of corn and squash. Three families of old ones had returned early enough to plant for the crops to mature before frost.
Grierson and the lieutenant rode together up the narrow valley. Crystal blue water sparkled in the small river. High above steep mountain walls, fleecy clouds drifted lazily without any place to go.
The colonel said, “Surely this little peaceful band of Apaches couldn’t have had anything to do with the brutal killings we have witnessed. We will go to Fort Stanton and rest a few days before we head back.”
Lobo and Loco worked together irrigating the small field. Dressed in castoff garments, they appeared to be adjusting to the white man’s way of life. Ignorantly, seeming to be little more than primitive savages turning from their wild ways, they waved laconically before they went back to shoveling dirt.
H Company welcomed the canvas tents and hot food that had been prepared for them. They swam in the river’s cold water. A few fished for trout that leaped from the water when caught. Because of the color of their skins, few of the permanent citizens had anything to do with them.
Most of the Buffalo soldiers gambled and drank until their paychecks were gone.
CHAPTER
Lucille, the Creole Mulatto from New Orleans, was still a virgin. . Tall but not awkward, slender but strong, she was a virgin by her own decision. More than from choice, her virtue was intact because her elegant beauty covered an ability to incapacitate men who tried to abuse her. . During the year she had worked as a domestic for Mrs. Grierson, five of Company H’s best groaned when their bruised testicles came into contact with their saddle leather.
Longings for her home in Louisiana had almost worn away. Her mother’s death came before the damn Yankee carpetbagger had a chance to deflower her. A favorite of her distinguished mastah, he had left her with his impoverished fine estate. . The portly Yankee who rode up in a handsome black carriage had not cared for the fragrant magnolia trees shading the well-manicured lawn.
Even though the enterprising Bostonian offered to make her his mistress, he knew nothing of her close relationship to the family who had owned the mansion. She was her revered Mastah’s beloved granddaughter. Her handsome but wild father lost his life leading a Cavalry charge in Pennsylvania. . Reflecting, she thought the name of the place was Gettysburg.
Remembering the dashing major dressed in an elegant gray uniform, she fondly recollected fragrant cigar smoke when his well-trimmed beard brushed her delicate cheeks. . He acknowledged she was his daughter by giving her a lingering farewell kiss.
Unlike most ex-slaves, Lucille could read fluently. . Her proud grandfather had included her in instructions given by an effeminate young gentleman from a proper family from Georgia. . Not strong enough for the Southern Army, being a teacher beat starving.
Because of her ability to read, she was in Texas. . An add in New Orleans’ newspaper caught her attention. . Domestic help in New Orleans received little or no pay. . Most of her black relatives were lucky to receive meager meals for long hours of degrading labor. . She made the long trip with Sutler Wilkerson’s wagon train that carried needed supplies to Fort Davis.
Although he barely noticed her, Sergeant James Wilkerson,# the competent and handsome non-commissioned officer in charge of the Black enlisted Cavalrymen, caught her eye.
“He’s the Sutler’s kin and was a personal bodyguard to Colonel Decatur Noonan Wilkerson at Vicksburgh,” excited young Cilia told Lucille. . Cilia was black except her palms were almost white. . Her many great grandfathers away, old Warrior, had started her lineage. . No white blood had ever sullied her African lineage.
“Personal bodyguard?” the Creole mulatto asked.
“The sutler was a colonel in the Confederate Cavalry before he los’ his leg in the wild Tennessee Mountains. His dead brother was Sergeant Major James’s mastah at the battle of Vicksburgh.”
Lucille spoke with envy showing in her voice. . “You seem to know much about Sergeant James.”
“We both raised by Mastah Wilkerson at Liberty, Mississippi.”
“Did he ever make love to you?” Lucille dreaded to hear the answer.
“Nah, he too old for me. Another young slave, Charles Ray and his young mastah, Nat Wilkerson, they used to once in awhile.”
“Who is this Nat?”
“He de Sutler’s nephew. . He most kind and gentle in his lovemaking. . Only thing, he in love with a most spoiled girl named Sally Ann. . Nothin’ good ever come of that marriage.”
Lucille changed the conversation back to the sergeant. . “You say he fought at Vicksburgh?”
“He not only fought der, he help Nat save his daddy from the Yankees. . Why you ask all these questions?”
“’Cause I got my heart set on marrying that handsome thing.”
“Yo neba talk like us other colored people. Except James, he neba talk like us. . He educated ‘most as good as Major Charles Ray Wilkerson.”
Lucille forgot to explain about being raised and educated in the big plantation. . Instead she asked another question. . “This Charles Ray, was he the sutler’s son?”
“Kin as two peas in a pod. . Father and son. . Neither of dem ebah denies it. . Only thing, his daddy neba let him forget he Nigah. . Warned him about playin’ around with Sarah Jane, Nat’s sister.”
“White men, they never thought about starting child in Black people. . There was hell to pay if it happened the other way ‘round.”
Lucille forgot the wagon train and all the people who had traveled to Texas with her. . She had already cleaned the breakfast mess. . It was almost time to start the mid-day meal. . Carefully she laid out a venison haunch and rubbed it with a sprinkle of salt. . Expertly, she rubbed a handful of dried herbs over the red meat a soldier had killed late yesterday.
The colonel’s family preferred wild game to the stringy range cattle ranchers sold the fort. . In fact, three riders were hazing a small herd of cattle along the dirt road. . Not only could she see them by looking out the front window, she could smell the cattle’s pungent odors.
She lived in her sparkling bright kitchen. . The colonel’s wife had ordered a narrow bed covered with a bright colored quilt to be placed against the south wall. Although there was little time for loafing, in her spare moments she sat in a crudely-built willow rocker and worried about Sergeant Wilkerson. . For the past month, he had been hunting for Apache murderers in New Mexico.
The kitchen was Lucille’s domain. . Shiny pots and pans hanging from pegs secured to the wall, she proudly dusted and polished in her every spare moment. . Taking care of an officer’s family was so much easier than washing clothes for single officers and enlisted men.
Going to the front door, she peered around a climbing rose bush. . The small, yellow blossoms sent a heady fragrance into the hot summer air. . To the south, Cilia and a half dozen other black women sang as they methodically scrubbed and pounded clothing to remove dark mud stains. . And mixed with the mud, occasionally the washer women found dried blood. . The United States Government paid the Tenth Cavalry to fight Apaches!
Suddenly from the north came sounds of clopping horses. . The young maiden’s heart beat a tatoo in her bosom. . Could it be the absent Cavalry coming home? Her heart cried out, “Is Sergeant Wilkerson returning unhurt?” The soft summer wind seemed to whisper a more ominous message, “Is he alive?” Some patrols returned with large Cavalry mounts carrying empty saddles stained with blood.
When she thought she could stand the agonizing suspense no longer, the guidon rounded a curve in the mountainous trail and with colors flying, led the galloping mounts toward the cool rushing waters of Lipia Creek. . She would soon know if the one she secretly loved was in his saddle.
Dusty riders in blue uniforms straightened in their saddles. . A metamorphosis took place. . Changed from weary men who thought the endless desert miles would never end, they no longer felt the piercing eyes of lurking, hostile Apaches peering out from every clump of grass, every lonely rock, or every scraggly bush. . The thankful men were in sight of the adobe fort. . For an unknown period of time, they could sleep without cocked pistols in their clenched hands.
They came in order by ranks and ratings. . In the rear, cumbersome supply wagons rumbled protestingly bumping over rocks and washed out places in the primitive wagon road.
All the personnel at the fort, who were not assigned to jobs they could not leave, rushed to line the path their returning heroes must take. Hearts leaped up in anxious women’s throats. . Three recently killed riders rested face down tied to their mounts’ bellies. . Wounded men too hurt or sick to care lay prone in the ambulance.
Wives and other close friends or relatives rushed to see if their loved one rode with the returning troops.
Sergeant James Wilkerson# leading the enlisted men was pleased to see that Lucille, the Creole Mulatto from New Orleans, stood watching. . Soon, he thought, he would get up the nerve to spend a pleasant hour or two with her - if she would allow it. . None of the troop had fared well with her before. . He was afraid he would meet the same fate.
Glad that the Black sergeant from Mississippi had returned, Lucille hurried into the kitchen. . Quickly she prepared another haunch of venison to cook. . Colonel Grierson would likely be hungry after such a long ride. . With blood rushing to her face, she wondered if the colonel and his lady would make love before they ate. . With a sudden urgent yearning, she wished Sergeant Wilkerson was present to do the same.





CHAPTER
Sutler Charles Ray Wilkerson sat behind a scarred oak desk. Although the piece of furniture had seen better days, its massiveness created an air of authority to the adobe building housing the general store. . A conglomerate smattering of travelers, small ranchers and farmers, Black soldiers, wives of military personnel, and occasionally an almost-naked savage entered.
“Help you, mam?” the polite male clerk standing next to the nickel-plated cash register asked an officer’s lady.
The young wife adjusted her pale pink straw bonnet. . “This Texas heat is terrible,” she said before placing two cans of peaches and a small jar of sorghum molasses on the counter.
“This be all?” the clerk asked.
“All I have money to buy. . A lieutenant’s pay doesn’t cover many luxuries. . I can bake a pie. . My husband will enjoy a little sweet sorghum with his venison and eggs.” She paused and wiped a trickle of perspiration with her dainty linen handkerchief. . “That is if the hens continue to lay.”
“Our cow went dry,” the clerk said.
“I know your wife depended on the milk.”
“A new baby in the house requires some extra nourishment. Think I’ll go over to Bridges’ line camp and buy a fresh range cow. They’re hard to milk, but even the bluish milk they give beats nothing.”
“The fort should have bought some of the fresh cows when Drifter Lee brought his herd through.”
A deep male voice startled the young wife. . “Mrs. Lewis, my sentiments exactly. . Doctor Lauderdale and I are going to talk to Sutler Wilkerson about procuring us twenty fresh cows.”
“Colonel Grierson, I had no idea you and Dr. Lauderdale were here.” She bowed to the officer-in-charge and held out her white-gloved hand to the doctor. . “Thank you so much for taking care of my husband’s wound. Without you, he would have never survived the arrow dipped in rattlesnake venom.”
The doctor held the young wife’s hand a moment. “The Lord heals. . I only use my training to do what he wants done.”
“You are much too modest,” she said. . Picking up her purchases and the small amount of change, she turned toward the door. “I must get home and try to get some dust off our furniture.”
The colonel went before her to open the heavy door designed to keep out savages and thieves. . “My apologies for the rather primitive living conditions here at Fort Davis. . I do appreciate you and your husband’s tremendous contribution to the health and welfare of our fine officers and men. And, tell Lieutenant Lewis we will be glad to have him when we go into the field again.”
“It took a long time for the wound to heal. Thank you for your kind words, Colonel Grierson. . The pleasure of Lieutenant Lewis and myself serving here is not only a duty but an honor.”
Stepping into the wilting heat, the young wife knew liking Colonel Grierson was not enough. . In order for her husband to advance in a frontier Army where promotions were few, she must show every courtesy to officers who could help her husband’s career.
The colonel watched a large blowfly come in the door and light on a carton of canned milk. . The fly made the manufactures name, BORDEN, have a mis-shaped O.
“Help you,Colonel Grierson?” The sutler thought it might be best to find out the colonel’s mission before anymore flies entered the cooler interior of his adobe store. . When he walked across the worn wooden floor, his wooden leg made a hollow thumping noise on the rough lumber.
“Doctor Lauderdale and I want to discuss a few matters with you.”
“Anything wrong?” The sutler’s voice was condescending. . Although he knew he must cooperate with the colonel, he still remembered what the Bluecoats had done to his regiment in the Tennessee mountains.
“No, Mr. Wilkerson. . I appreciate the fine way you conduct business in procuring supplies for Fort Davis.”
“Least I can do, sir. . Had it not been my side lost, I would probably be fighting these Apaches myself.”
“Too bad the Union couldn’t see fit to use your talents in conducting this war on the Western Redskins. . They are mighty hard to do anything with.”
“I can see Congress’s position. . After all, my brother and I did some pretty hard fighting to try and divide this nation. . We thought it was for the best.”
“Colonel,” Grierson used the one-legged man’s military title, “we appreciate the contribution you and your wife, Nancy, have made to this fort. . Her talents as a teacher have turned a number of uneducated military children into scholars. . With her help, my two sons are ready for Eastern universities.”
“I know my wife will appreciate your kind words.”
“Both Black enlisted men and white officers have benefited in your help in not only English, but in your lectures on government, philosophy and history.”
“Not only did my studies at Yale prepare me, my father in Mississippi was a great teacher.”
“Too bad the War Between the States interrupted your career. . Southern scholars made a great contribution to our Nation’s education of its young.”
“I am extremely grateful to still be alive, sir. . For awhile it looked like I would occupy a hole in the Tennessee mountains.”
The colonel let his Civil War memories filter through his mind before he stated he and the doctor’s business. . “Mr. Wilkerson, you have done an excellent job of bringing supplies to Fort Davis.”
“Thank you, sir.” The sutler knew more was to follow. . Officers-in-charge of forts did not waste their time in idle calls on civilians.
“As you know, Mr. Wilkerson, even though we are making headway against these Apache savages, the war is a long way from over.”
“How may I help?”
The doctor made his presence known. . “We need milk. . Even though the men complain when they have no meat, they never complain when there are no vegetables and fruit. . Nevertheless, a largely meat diet is not too healthy.”
The sutler did some silent figuring in his mind. . “I can contract with local people to grow vegetables in the summer. . Since about all that will grow this far north in the winter are mustard and turnip greens, I will freight in citrus fruit from San Antonio.”
“Will it keep long enough?” the doctor asked skeptically.
“With the railroad coming closer every day, I can make a profit without breaking the Army.”
The colonel thought a moment. . “Any chance of you contracting to provide the fort with milk? Soldiers complain enough about making the adobes for these buildings.”
“These Blacks hired on to fight Apaches,” the sutler said.
“I guess my men do gripe when they come in here to buy,” the colonel said.
“Remember,” the sutler reminded him, “a number of soldiers and the civilian workers on this post came with me from Mississippi.”
“The best one is Sergeant Wilkerson,” the colonel bragged. . “Hadn’t been for him, we would never have made it to and back from New Mexico Territory.”
“His people came into Mississippi with my people. . Black and white Wilkersons go back a long way.”
“Guess with the Mescaleros contained at Fort Stanton and the Arizona Apaches at San Carlos, we will be leaving for Colorado tomorrow. . You have all the supplies we need to keep us in the in the field?”
The sutler looked through a stack of invoices. . “Jerked beef, beans, lard... seems like everything is here.”
“Coffee?”
“Colonel, we got enough Arbunkle to last you to hell and back.”
The colonel thought a moment before he decided he could trust his companions enough to say, “Maybe farther than that before we get those Colorado Utes onto reservations.”
“Guess they did cause a ruckus for themselves when they killed Indian Agent Meeker and Chief Douglas raped the poor dead man’s wife.”
The sutler knew as much about the Cavalry’s business as the colonel did.
“With the discovery of gold and silver in those Colorado mountains, the business men want to get rid of the Indians more each day. . A bunch of savages running horses through the mining camps can bring work to a stop. The thing with the agent gave the business men all the excuse they needed to chase the Ute off their hunting grounds”
The sutler looked at his army of tin cans filled with food and said wishfully, “Wish I could go with you, Colonel. . Peg leg and all, I bet those Indians aren’t one bit more dangerous than those Bluecoats in the Tennessee mountains.”
The colonel thought back years and miles away. . “You rebels weren’t slouches yourselves. . I had to dodge many a minníe ball you bastards filled the air with.”
The sutler’s clenched fist grew white from lack of blood before he said, “Colonel, those glory days are gone forever.”
The colonel saluted and walked out into the hot summer air.





CHAPTER
Drifter was not satisfied. He and Scar Face rode checking for screwworm infected calves. Although calving was over when flies laid their eggs in unhealed navels, the maggots were still appearing in cuts.
He and his men had brought over eight thousand Texas cattle to graze on mountain pastures rimming the eastern slopes of the Tularosa Basin. The fact Mescalero Apaches still had their reservation on the headwaters of the Tularosa ate into his brain like acid.
Drifter marveled. Raw-boned, caved in from inadequate pasture, the desert cattle from Texas became sleek. Their sunken sides were as rounded as cattle from the tall grass country of Kentucky and Tennessee.
Through green pastures, Drifter watched mountain streams sparkle under a hot July sun that dried up West Texas grass. He and his brother lived in a cattleman’s paradise.
Not only was water and grass plentiful, there was a ready market for beef on the hoof. Today, ten riders under the direction of his brother were cutting out a hundred head of older steers to haze north to feed subdued Navahos. Last week, a Colorado cattleman had bought five hundred head of prime breeding cows to stock his mountain pastures in LaPlata County.
“Think we’ll drift down and see if we can’t do somethin’ about clearing out them damn Mescaleros.”
“Risky,” his hired gunman said, “soldiers at Fort Stanton will object.”
“Most of them are busy chasin’ after Colorado Ute. Since most of the Fort Davis Niggers are gone, also, there’s not enough to cause us any trouble.”
“You got plans?” After his escape from the Texas jail, Scar Face had grown leery of messing with the U.S. Cavalry.
“You’ll see when we take the Fort’s monthly ration of beef to them tomorrow.”
“Good solid contract,” Scar Face reminded him. “Wouldn’t mess with it.”
“It’ll look like an accident. I’ll starve them thieving red skinned bastards out.”
YFierce Eagle watched Apache Rose awkwardly pick green squash for their evening meal. Her swollen body reminded him the baby was due before the next full moon. He was having trouble waiting for the arrival of his first born.
A rumbling noise coming up th攠癡汬敹
he valley caused him to look.. Something was wrong. Instead of the monthly ration of beeves coming quietly, the long horned animals were raising a large dust cloud. Drifter and his riders were stampeding the herd!
The expecting father took no time to saddle a horse. Leaping on the back of a four-year old mare that grazed nearby, he dug his moccasin heels in hard. He must reach Apache Rose before the running cattle did. There was no time to think.
Sharp hooves were almost on his wife. If he did one thing wrong, her mangled body would be all that was left. He didn’t try to keep his mount from stepping on vegetables. He realized there wouldn’t be any left after the cattle finished their senseless stampede.
She stood when it was too late to run. His strong arms came around her. She knew she would have died but for Fierce Eagle. He could not bring her to an upright position. All she could do was slump over the horse’s neck like a sack of grain they sometimes brought home from the fort. Rations were doled out three times a month. Often the grain products were full of weevils.
What an odd time to think about how the Indian Agent cheated her people out of their pay for staying confined to this mountain valley. As the cultivated ground raced past, she realized the cattle’s sharp hooves were destroying her people’s winter supply of food.
Before they reached safety, the horse stepped into a prairie dog hole dug at the edge of the clearing. Fierce Eagle was on his feet dragging her to the safety of a rustling cottonwood tree. When his strong arms came around their unborn child, she knew she was going to live.
“What scared the cattle?” she asked as the herd split to miss the obstacle.
“Drifter and his men fired shots into the air to make them run.”
Apache Rose couldn’t understand such a thing being done deliberately. “Why?”
“He wants our reservation land.”
“They have all the land they need without this narrow valley and a few thousand acres of mountain land.”
“Men like Drifter and his brother never have all the land they need. As long as one of our people lives in these mountains, they will do everything they can do to take it.”
“What can we do?”
“Dull Knife and his white woman sent word for us to come back to the Davis Mountains. Shipments of gold are coming east from the Arizona mountains.”
“Ussen’s gold?”
“Sacred Apache gold we are forbidden from taking out of the mountain soil. These White-eyes do as they please with Ussen’s things. There will be nothing for our children to live on when we are gone.”
Drifter didn’t see them when he rode by with Scar Face. “Missed all of those dirty Apaches that time. They should starve out this winter. Soldiers are going to hold them here during cold weather.”
Scar Face spat his word’s of hate out. “If we kill them and those Nigger soldiers, this country’ll be a lot better off.”
“We are better than they are,” Apache Rose told her husband who stood with his arm around her. Instead of them growing apart, their love increased their devotion for each other. His hand caressed the unborn child’s head through her cotton skirt.
Sadly he went over in his mind what was happening to his people. “With the gold we can buy more guns. Soon the White-eyes will realize they can’t run us out of our country.”
Doctor Blazer woke up when he heard dull sounds in the night, “Mescaleros are leaving,” he told his wife.
“Shouldn’t we notify the fort?” Some of the small children were like her own.
“No,” the doctor said, “they can’t find happiness here. Always Drifter and his men will take or destroy everything they have. It is better they leave.”
“Soldiers will kill them. I have heard most of the Black soldiers at Camp Davis are hunting Colorado Ute.”
“They have a better chance away from Drifter. This whole country is going to explode.”
Explode?” she asked.
“Lincoln County is a powder keg.”
“Should we get out?”
He took her gently in his arms. “Think of all the things we have been through. Apache war leaders have camped in our front yard. Men who massacred other settlers came here to council with me. No, these ruthless men from Texas will not hurt us.”
“Why are you so sure?”
“Because God is watching over us.” She felt his face and knew he was right.
Lobo kept his people moving swiftly all night in spite of a young couple with a new baby boy who rode with them. When they started to rest their horses, he said, “Bluecoats will be on our trail come morning. We must get into Texas.”
“Why will that help us?” Loco asked.
“White-eyes are strange people. They mark imaginary lines on the earth. They will not cross them without big pow-wows. By the time they decide what to do, we will have found this valley where Dull Knife waits with his white wife.”
“She is a good woman,” Loco said. “Perhaps she will help us someday when we need her help.”
Pinkness of the rising sun met their eyes when they rode out of Dog Canyon. Soon they could rest safely for a few days in the Guadalupes.
“Remember, we have to be there to help Dull Knife when the gold shipment goes through,” Fierce Eagle said.
“We will be there,” his father said.
“How do you know?” his son asked.
“Yesterday while you were saving your wife and future child, a message came from the Arizona Apaches. The gold shipment will not go out until next month.”
Fierce Eagle sought solace on a high mountain peak. Long hair streaming in the wind, he looked down on the place where his mother was killed by the two Texas Rangers. Sorrow was being replaced by a bitterness that was driving him to avenge her blood.
After he made his pact with Ussen, he found rest in Apache Rose’s arms.
“For awhile you seemed to have a devil on your back. Now you seem calmer.”
“I have made a vow to kill the Texas Rangers who killed Canor.”
“My husband, you may have vowed to do something you can’t do.”
“The Rangers come whenever one of our people kills one of the Texas homesteaders. After we take Apache gold back, then we will kill a White-eye family, burn their home and wait.”
“You are right. Rangers will come, but must you kill women and children?”
“It is only right. They kill our women and children. You will see, when White-eyes realize we will not let them stay in our country, they will go back to their old homes. All this land is ours. White-eyes take everything else. This time Apaches will kill and burn until they leave us alone.”
When the new moon came, again the Apaches rode naked across the land. Silently and swiftly by the moon’s light, they sped like ghosts. Mountain ranges were always close enough so if the enemy came, they could hide in valleys hard to find.
Unlike the Guadalupe and Davis Mountains, the other mountains in the corridor were desert mountains with only scattered waterholes Apaches and a few white men knew about. Lobo and his people gave little thought to being caught.
Riding through the moonlight, the braves’ black hair streamed in the night breeze. Behind them came the women and children followed by pack animals carrying the Mescalero’s belonging.
“One more night, and we will be there,” Lobo told Fierce Eagle.
“Apache Rose needs her rest. Our child will be here soon.”
Loco spoke his thoughts. “Perhaps if we didn’t love our families so much, we would leave them behind like the Americans and Mexicans fighting men do.”
“Soldiers would find and kill them. They are better where we can watch out for them,” Lobo said.
Fingers of pink started spreading dawn over the eastern sky. A cool breeze came off the mountain. “We must find a place where there is some shelter from the heat,” Lobo told his son.
“I will find such a place,” Fierce Eagle said. Riding on ahead, before daylight he found a place where seep water coming from under a large boulder caused large mesquite trees to grow from beans carried in wild horses’ guts.
Without pause he rode back to intersect the others. After they squatted around small cook fires, he brushed out animal and human marks so no enemy could track them to this lair.
A deep voice disturbed him. “Know they came this way,” a man’s voice spoke.
Fierce Eagle made the sound of quail. Campfires disappeared under a shower of sand. No one moved. A small Cavalry detachment from Fort Stanton led by a large Black rider stopped to examine the trail that disappeared into a trackless jungle of thorny bushes covered with pods of green beans.
“No use going into that,” the black leader said. Giving a signal with his right hand, the men turned their large mounts. When Fierce Eagle started to breathe a sigh of relief, the new baby made an angry noise.
“You hear a baby?” the Black leader asked. The search party halted.
The young mother of the struggling infant didn’t hesitate. Centuries of Apache training came into her veins. Without thought, her strong hand clamped down on the infant’s throat. Without a gurgle, her loved infant boy grew still. His breath stopped. When there was no pulse left in the delicate vein in the baby’s temple, the mother lifted her hand. The dead baby could no longer give her people away.
Fierce Eagle watched the large, Black soldier motion his men toward the main column. “Must have been a wild animal,” he said.
The dead infant’s mother silently burst into a soundless grief. She knew she had sacrificed her baby’s life to save the other members of this small group. Although she grieved, she had no afterthoughts about what she had done. She knew it was the Apache way.
Loco knew where Dull Knife and his bride dwelt. The hidden valley among a palisade of tall rocks that sheltered a large cave was less than an hour’s climb from the Buffalo soldiers’ fort. Weary from his journey, Fierce Eagle came first to get instructions from his friend.
Roxanne looked up from her making of a new dress to greet him. “Fierce Eagle, Loco and I were wondering if you were coming back.”
“Ten braves ride with me.”
“And their families?”
He nodded an affirmative answer. “We plan to do some raiding until the Arizona gold shipment comes through.”
“And divert attention from the great Victorio,” she guessed.
Fierce Eagle was surprised at how quickly this refined English lady had become an Apache. “You understand us,” he said.
“I live with an Apache. Loco does nothing but make plans while he waits.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
The shapely woman stood and held the dress before her. The eyes of her husband’s friend told her all she needed to know about the new garment. “Since they left for Colorado, Loco watches the Buffalo soldiers’ fort. He knows their every move. When I laugh at him about his habit, he tells me the information will be of great value soon.”
“After I get my people settled, I will find him.”
“Of course,” she said, “we must find places for your people to stay. There is plenty of room in this cave. They can make themselves at home anywhere in this area.”
“Some of us will want to make shelters in the open.”
“You love the open places. Loco says we must be careful with our garbage and not attract buzzards. This close to the fort, the circling birds will alert the soldiers.”
“The seekers of garbage have always been a problem. Where do you keep your horses?”
“In a dead-end canyon less than a mile from here.”
“The soldiers have not found them?”
“The few who are left here are so interested in scouting all over the place to notice what is going on under their noses. Keep very quiet,” she cautioned.
“A young mother had to smother her baby yesterday.”
“Loco has explained why this is necessary. If I ever have a child, I will refuse to kill it.”
“May you never have to make that decision,” he said. “I go find Loco.”
His friend was peering over a rock at the ant like creatures walking about in the fort below them. The palisade of tall cliffs made of individual columns protected the white men’s fort from cold winds. It also made it easy for Apaches scouts to spy.
“They are not at full strength,” Loco told his friend. “We will wait until they ride out to hunt our people before we rob a stagecoach.”
Fierce Eagle watched a group of black men tromp in a mud pit. “What do those fools do?”
Loco told him, “ When they are not hunting us, they tromp straw into the mud, put the mud into molds and let the sun dry it.”
“And then?”
“They take the dried mud and build more buildings.”
Fierce Eagle spoke in an incredulous voice. “Men who chase us on horses do this?”
“They do squaw work when they are not on the warpath. None of our braves would do such tasks.”
Fierce Eagle questioned what Loco told him. “These black men are fierce fighters, but it is only after they mess around in the mud?”
“Perhaps someday we will teach our squaws to build us buildings out of the earth.”
Fierce Eagle didn’t agree. “Your white woman will never do such work.”
“She is a good wife. Besides learning quickly, she takes good care of me. Never have I seen one of our women fix such food.”
“Where does she get stuff to cook?” Fierce Eagle was envious of his friend’s wife’s gift of making do with so little.
Dull Knife laughed. “These White-eye’s cattle constantly hide out among these rocks. . I lure them into traps and slit their throats.”
“No one catches you?”
Dull Knife laughed. . “Since we waylaid them when they looked for us after the wagon train robbery, they don’t ride into where they might be a trap.”
Fierce Eagle looked at the country around him. . “These rocks do give plenty of places to hide. . To think we are so close but still the soldiers don’t realize you have them under surveillance.”
“When they are looking for us, they are competent fighters. . When they are in their camp, they spend too much time thinking of women, whiskey, and those stupid parades they do in their monkey suits.”
Fierce Eagle laughed. . “They spend too much time dressing up and parading for their officers. . Our ways are savage, but we don’t spend our time and energy foolishly. . It is better we make more weapons to defeat these Black soldiers.”
Dull Knife asked, “What are your plans?”
Lobo made his presence known. The chief and Loco had silently crept up on their visiting sons. “Tomorrow we begin to avenge the death of Canor. Bridgers oversees the Lee’s cattle operation in Texas.”
“So? How does that work in with your plan to avenge my mother’s death?”
“The three Texas rangers who killed her are looking for cattle rustlers. They are close enough to see the cabin burning after we kill the Bridgers and their new baby boy.”.
CHAPTER
Jim Bridgers and his beautiful black-haired wife, Nelda Jean, cuddled close to their two week old babyboy. Jim knew he should be at line camp with his men, but he rationalized a man didn’t become a new father every day.
“Jim, look at her tiny feet,” his wife said while she held the small infant so he could nurse..
“Hardly seems possible we produced such a perfect thing. I’ve always marveled at new life, new calves, colts, puppies, and the get of wild things. Never did I expect to have one of my very own to hold. You happy?” he asked his young wife.
“Extremely.” She ran her soft hands across her husband’s sun bronzed face. “Oh, Jim, I’ll be so happy when we have a dozen like her. The next one is going to be a boy who will look just like his father.”
The two lay in the half light of morning admiring their offspring.
“Guess I’d better get back to camp after we eat breakfast.”
“Jim, can’t you stay another day?”
“Wish I never had to leave you two. I could use a day to clear the tall grass and brush from around the cabin. “
“I’d feel better with the whole yard cleared like we did that garden spot. Apaches can sneak in here too easy without us able to see them. Drifter is never happy unless I’m with the cattle while they’re calving. Besides, the Mexican woman we hired can take better care of you than I do.”
“Jim, I’ll be so glad when you don’t have to work for the Lees. They pay so little and demand so much.”
“Besides being dishonest they are so cruel to all the Mexicans, Black, and the Indians. Well, after this fall, I’ll take my share of the cattle and start my own spread. Our land is most paid for.”
Jim stood to pull his pants over his bare feet. Suddenly a red splotch of blood grew into a flood that covered his chest. As though by magic, his wife saw an arrow protrude through her husband’s denim work shirt. “Oh, Jim, you’re hurt,” she cried out as his body slumped to the floor
“Mescaleros, get the rifle and defend yourself and our daughter,” were his last gasping words.

Nelda Jean grabbed the rifle her husband had dropped to the rough plank floor. Getting on all fours, she made her way to the windowsill. Cautiously raising her head, she peered out through the glass pane her and Jim had saved carefully to buy from the suttler. Movement grew in the dropping live oak that covered the chicken house with its sheltering limbs. One savage head became two until ten of the dreaded Apaches stood ready to rush the house.

Her rifle belched into action. One warrior went to his knees before he fell on his face. She wondered hysterically if she could stop the other near naked savages who continued to rush the house. Slashing knives broke through the crack in the heavy front door. She fired the rifle, and then realized she was out of ammunition. Before she had time to reload, the savages burst into the cabin.

Weak from childbirth, she could offer little resistance. Dull Knife prepared to rape her. . During this time of extreme emotions, he forgot Roxanne and her hold on him. “There is no time,” Lobo hissed.

“I will take the papoose to my wife,” the would be rapist said, and the leader saw there was no use trying to stop his warrior.

The young mother clutched feebly at the slashing knife that caused a flood of gushing blood to come from where her delicate neck throbbed with each burst of energy driving her to protect the screaming infant who couldn’t understand the grasping hands soaked in blood.

Before her young body fell to the earthen floor, Lobo said, “Burn the cabin.”

Taking up a can filled with kerosene, Fierce Eagle splashed the vile smelling liquid over the cabin, and last of all, he doused the two bodies lying on the floor. . Taking a fire brand from the fireplace that covered the north wall, he threw it into the oily liquid covering the cabin’s interior. Instantly blue flames licked across the floor, reached the two corpses soused with the flammable liquid and the cabin burst into dancing tongues of flames.

“Hide in the woods,” Loco ordered. “The flames will bring th
he Texas Rangers.”

Dull Knife clutching the screaming infant, ran to where his horse was tied in a thicket of mesquite bushes.. Taking a rawhide thong, he bound the baby to the horse’s quivering back. “Since my squaw is barren, youll fill her empty arms.”

Fierce Eagle cautioned. “Dull Knife, we have little time.”

For a moment, Dull Knife shed his fierce Apache ways. Sticking his finger into the squalling infants curling hand, he said in wonderment, Even those with pale faces can produce beautiful babies.

Dull Knife, Fierce Eagle said, someday well have to learn to live with them.

Or die at their hands, Lobo warned. As close as the Rangers are, they should be here in no longer time than it takes the sun to destroy our shadows.

More silent祬琠慨
ly than they came, the savages who lived as one with mother earth,

blended into the surrounding grass and trees without leaving a trace in the tall swaying grass. . Dull Knife realized he had to stop the infant from giving their position away with its loud wailing.

Youll have to kill her, Lobo said harshly. Shell get us all killed.

Roxanne longs to hold one such as this in her arms.

Lobo took charge. Take her to Roxanne right now. Dont bother to argue, get out of here with the child youve placed above the welfare of your people. Take your horse from the Mexican youth we captured and ride out of here.”

Dull Knife put his hand over the infants mouth to stop her crying. With his burden in one arm, he vaulted onto the bare back of his horse. The eight lef⁴敢楨摮
t behind heard no more from the crying orphan girl. . Fierce Eagle realized for the first time he might go into battle without Dull Knife at his side. For a moment, fear immobilized him until he realized the one who brutally murdered his mother approached. Anger filled his pulsing blood with adrenaline.


*CHAPTER

Captain Arden and his two men were still eating their meal of beef and gravy when smoke billowed into the clear blue sky that cut through their eyes like mesquite thorns. . With most of the soldiers gone to Colorado, the Rangers were running day and night to protect the scattered settlers from bands of Apaches who had made themselves more bold after they found out most of the troops were busy with other things.

McFarland noticed it first. . Jumping to his feet, he said, quietly,
Looks like the Bridgers cabin is burnin’.

Maybe theyre just burnin that brush pile where they cleared a garden spot, the Captain said. He and his men had ridden till after midnight before theyd unsaddled their horses and thrown down blankets and their saddles to make a pallet on the ground. They hadnt worried much about snakes under the giant spreading live oak.

Fires too oily. Looks like someone used a can of keroscene to get it started. Doubt if the Bridgers would be that wasteful.

The Captain thought it over. Youre right. Hard as it is to get to the suttler at the fort, doubt if theyd be burning much oil to start a brush fire. Id planned to rest here today, but, men, guess its our duty to find out whats going on. Crawford, you put out the fire while we get the horses ready.

The three men rode out leaving nothing but a small steaming patch of burnt earth enclosed by a rim of burnt rocks. The wet spring had made gramma grass almost to their horses bellies. If nothing happened, they knew this country would be covered with grass taller than the horses they were riding.

The Captains concern showed in his voice. Looks like were too late to save the cabin. Maybe if were lucky, we can save the Bridgers.

Terrible thing to happen with a new baby in the house. Crawfords thoughts turned to his own people who lived along the muddy Rio Grande. Apaches and Comanches had burned his people out too many times.

The Captain spoke while his surefooted horse found his way over tough terrain. Terrible thing to happen to a young couple anytime, having a baby in the house makes it twice as bad.

Before they reached the clearing, the Captain had already thought out a plan of action. Looks like its too late to do anything for the Bridgers unless琠敨⁹牡
they are hiding in the brush. Looks like Apache doings from the looks of things. Damn cruel Apache bastards had to kill everything even their innocent baby.”

Red McFarland thought of nothing else but getting his hands around an Apache’s throat and squezzing the life out of a naked savage. . His mind flashed back to a cave where an Apache chief’s wife lay violated brutally by he and Crawford. For a sickning moment he wondered if this might be the work of the band of Apaches who were spending the winter months in the Guadalupe Mountains. Shaking his head, he knew he must put the thought out of his head. A remorseful man couldn’t think clearly if the Apaches were still around.

Still, McFarland couldn’t turn his thoughts from the attractive woman he had brutilized on the rocky cave floor. He’d often thought he and Crawford could have enjoyed the woman. tied her and let her family take her back to her crude savage home. He knew there wasn’t any civilized reason for want he had done.

The Captain’s voice brought his mind back to the present. “You two position yourselves so you can cover me.”

“You’re not thinking of exposing yourself in that clearing?” McFarland
asked.

“Got a better plan?”

“Captain, if it was me, I’d find a good hidin’ place and wait and see if there’s still Apaches around.”

“Red,” the Captain said, “that’s a good safe plan, but what if there’s a chance of one of the Bridgers laying out there in the brush unable to move. If we’re lucky, maybe there’s a young mother clutching her unharmed baby in her arms. I’m goin’ in. Keep your guns ready.”

The Captain with a pistol drawn, took a circtious route. Riding south of the house, he stayed in a mesquite thicket until he was sure there weren’t any Apaches close and then he used the burning cabin for cover until he could come out in the tall grass surrounding the area without being ambushed. When he came in, he came into the cleared garden area so hard and fast Lobo’s lookout didn’t see him.
The Apaches had spent the day resting from the night’s brutal slaying. Fierce Eagle was still uneasy about not having Dull Knife with him. Since their iniation hike through the Lee’s land where they’d witnessed the killing of the judge and his small son, he and his companion had been togeather in every major engagement. . How his other companions would act in a time of crisis, was his main concern.
PRIVATE
The Apaches were completely off guard when the lookout finally saw the Ranger Captain suddenly appear south of the smoldering ruins of what had been the Bridger’s secure home. Lobo made a hand signal to the others, and they understood they were to remain in hiding until their leader gave another signal.

Fierce Eagle was in the post oak tree instantly. From his pearch he recognized the one who had led the two men who one had so brutally attacked his mother. Hardly able to obey his father, he made a hand signal that this one had been present when Canor was killed. Lobo stoically made a violent motion for all the band to keep their positions.

The Captain could find no definite proof that their had been any outsiders present when the Bridger’s cabin blazed into an inferno. The only thing that made him suspicious of outsiders setting the fire was a strong smell of keroscene fouling the clean spring air. Knowing his every move might be watched, he kept his revolver in his hand. The only reason he thought he might survive a hostile attack was that he could keep up a constant barrage of firing by using both his pistol and his rifle that held fourteen unfired catridges.

Waiting until he thought their was no hostiles around, the Captain shielded his face from the smoke and peered into the debri. Two charred corses let him know there was nothing but his men to do but to try and pick up horse tracks incase this was the work of mudering Apaches. For a moment he thought about waiting a few more minutes before he signaled for his men to make their way into the tall grass surrounding the devastated dwelling.

McFarland and Crawford made their way into the clearing. Both men held their pistols in firing position. Both carried their rifles at the ready. “Worries me that their are no birds making any racket, Captain,” McFarlin whispered.

“Seems awfully quiet to me, but probably the fire scared them away.”

Crawford didn’t trust the silence. “Better get behind trees in case there is an attack. What’s your plans?” he asked the Captain who had found protection behind a towering cottonwood tree. its ancient trunk was gnarled from battles with a nature that could be very hostile to all living things.

Before Captain could answer, McFarland’s rifle spoke with a loud commanding voice. The lookout lost his grip on the limb he had been sitting on and fell with a crash of branches to the ground. Fierce Eagle snapped off a shot and jumped to the ground just after he saw Crawford grab a oozing red spot on his shoulder.

Lobo gave a hand signal and his remaining seven warriors faded into the tall grass. The Captain told his two men, “We’re in trouble. They’ll sneak up on us and kill us when they please.”

Crawford muttered, “If I can’t get this blood stopped, I won’t be here long.” The Captain snaked over to him on his belly.

Taking a handkerchied from his
The Apaches had spent the day resting from the night's brutal slaying. Fierce Eagle was uneasy about not having Dull Knife with him. Since their iniation hike through the Lee's land where they'd witnessed the killing of the judge and his small son, he and his companion had been together in every major engagement. . How his other companions would act in a time of crisis, was his main concern.
PRIVATE
The Apaches were completely off guard when the Ranger captain suddenly appeared north of the smoldering ruins of what had been the Bridger's secure home. Lobo made a hand signal to the others, and they understood they were to remain in hiding until their leader gave another signal.
Fierce Eagle instantly recognized the one who had led the two men who one had so brutally attacked his mother. Hardly able to obey his father, he made a hand signal that this one had been present when Canor was killed. Lobo stoically made a violent motion for the entire band to keep their positions.
The Captain could find no definite proof that their had been any outsiders present when the Bridger's cabin blazed into an inferno. The only thing that made him suspicious of outsiders setting the fire was a strong smell of kerosene fouling the clean spring air. Knowing his every move might be watched, he kept his revolver in his hand. The only reason he might survive a hostile attack was that he could keep up a constant barrage of firing.
Waiting until he thought their was no hostiles around, the Captain shielded his face from the smoke and peered into the debris. Two charred corpses let him know there was nothing bor his men to do but to try and pick up horse tracks incase this was the work of mudering Apaches. For a moment he thought about waiting a few more minutes before he signaled for his men to make their way into the turfed grass surrounding the devastated dwelling.
McFarland and Crawford made their way into the clearing. Both men held their pistols in firing position. Both carried their rifles at the ready. "Worries me that their are no birds making any racket, Captain," McFarlin said.
"Seems awfully quiet to me, but probably the fire scared them away."
Crawford didn't trust the silence. "Better get behind trees in case there is an attack. What is your plans?" he asked the Captain who had found protection behind a towering cottonwood tree. its ancient trunk was gnarled from battles with a nature that could be very hostile to all living things.





LURES RANGERS, ROBS STAGE COACH. FIERCE EAGLE DOES NOT COMEBACK.









CHAPTER *
Apache Rose thought she would never reach her sixteenth birthday. Giving birth usually came easy for an Apache maiden. This one was turned wrong. His buttock was not firm enough to open her narrow birth canal.

She called, “Mother, help me.” A chattering squirrel broke the silence.

A hot Texas sun glaring blindly down on the struggling mother made her long, wet black hair plaster to her lovely face. The dying young woman was past the screaming stage. The boiling sun sought her body underneath a live oak tree. Searing heat showed no mercy.

A little longer was all she had. Flying buzzards and crawling ants would tear her flesh before nocturnal feral varmints could begin their feast. Raw Texas nature did not allow waste. Even gentle, fallen mourning doves were soon covered with devouring ants.

Only a fawn recently hidden by her thirsty mother showed any pity. Still too timid to run her comforting tongue over the suffering maiden’s face, the young deer shifted from one delicate hoof to another. Before long, her fright could not hold her back from a fallen fellow creature.

Apache Rose was in the ancient homeland of the Davis Mountains Mescalero Apaches. An oasis in the midst of a burning desert, the mountain sanctuary although hot, was a Mecca of tall pines and groves of pinyons hovering over a lower elevation belt of mountain juniper surrounding clumps of spreading live oaks.

Fallen from the customary squatting position of Apache women giving birth, the expectant mother lay almost motionless in a gore of blood and birthing fluids. Her breath coming feebly in faint undiscernible breaths, she could only faintly moan her young husband’s name, “Fierce Eagle.”

Her young brave who had gone on a horse stealing raid had not returned. Even her mother had fled when a lookout whispered the dread words, “Buffalo soldiers come.”

All Mescalero Apaches had learned to fear the Black Cavalrymen stationed at Fort Davis. The Bluecoats with curly black hair closely resembling the disappearing buffalo were more feared than ferocious, gnashing wolves.

Death would come before the sun started its descent behind a towering peak. Black, hideous circling buzzards prepared to settle clumsily on the rocky terrain.

Most black Buffalo Soldiers who sought this dying maiden’s warrior people would look on her death as just. Apaches mounts wore bloody red handprints on their sweaty hair. They had killed two Bluecoats who guarded the southern Butterfield Stagecoach Line. The west-bound stage from San Antoine to El Paso had escaped with only a few arrows stuck in its tough exterior.

Sergeant James Wilkerson# started to run his cruel saber through the dying enemy before he returned to the fort nestled among towering palisade cliffs. Not only had he lost three men, one who lay covered by rocky soil was his dead brother.

James, a skin lightened by a distant Irish sea captain, wore his inappropriate hot blue uniform as proudly as he had worn his gray uniform in the war that so recently seared the South. . He had been the proud personal servant and body guard to the exalted, deceased Colonel Decatur Noonan Wilkerson, defeated hero of the battle of Vicksburgh.

Pity gripped his brawny black hand from viciously killing. His brother’s dying face still danced in this simmering July heat.

Gently pulling the reins of his coal black Cavalry horse, he made a furtive search for lurking Apache warriors before he gently turned the suffering girl onto her back on fresh grama grass. Congealing splotches of fresh blood stained the crushed turf.

Gently grasping protruding infant legs, he tried to widen the narrow birth canal. His stiff Army-issued leather gloves lay bent to grasp the trailing saber.

His job was to kill, but he remembered his mother’s black hands guiding countless black and white babies into a world they came into protestingly. Flesh tore when the constriction parted to reveal a shriveled penis of a gory boy whose head still hid within his mother’s dark and bloody womb.

One harsh pull brought the naked infant into a world that celebrated an Apache boy baby’s birth by buzzards sweeping closer.

CHAPTER FOUR
“Sergeant Wilkerson, see you been going up the mountain a lot lately.” Captain Erickson stood tall and straight. His two silver bars glistened from a direct ray from the early morning sun. The *Nnth Cavalry’s officer crisp speech was a product of his strict West Point training and his New England heritage.

James showed no fear. “Sir, been collecting specimens of plants and rocks Mr. Wilkerson’s been sendin’ back East.”

“Sells them, does he?” The conversation intrigued a scientific bent the captain had once fed during his West Point days. Monotony of a frontier fort had almost drained any intellectual pursuits he ever had.

“Sends them to the Yale Biology Department.”
“Pretty fancy pursuit for an infamous colonel in the Confederate Army.”
“He studied at Yale before the War, sur.”
“Should have stayed and fought with us Yankees, Sergeant.”
“Our home is in Mississippi, sir.”
“Still have some respect for him?”
“He’s my deceased Mastah’s son, sur. Guess we is family, sur. His brother and me fought at Vicksburgh.”
“Know all about this Wilkerson brother. Fought in them Tennessee Mountains against my regiment. Think it was one of my men who clipped the leg he’s missing.”

“Terrible accident, sur. Most like to have ruined his mind.”

“We were ordered to shoot him in the head. Missed. Awful dangerous man.”

Coolness of mountain air belied the starting heat building up on the desert miles away in all four directions. This outcropping of mountains matched the coolness of the Guadalupe Mountains miles to the north.

“Good officer, sur.”
“He followed you west to Fort Davis?”
“Nothing left for him in Mississippi, sur. Him with a new bride and a leg missing.”
“Heard there was some scandal about him and his brother’s wife.”
“Don’t know nothing about it, sur.”
“Can’t complain about his honesty with the Army. Few of these sutlers deal fairly with soldiers or the Fort.”
“Been bringing in some awful good beef.”
“Brings in flour without weevils, also.”
“He’d made a good officer in the Yankee Army.”
The captain studied the mountains for signs of smoke signals before he answered. “Couldn’t be trusted after fighting against us so hard.”
“He’s an America same as I am, sur.”
“You were forced to follow orders. Reason I’m asking about your trips into the mountain, cook tells me you’re taking a basket of food with you every evening.”

“Been havin’ a little picnic by myself. Man needs time to himself, sur.”

“Not meeting with one of these black wenches who washes your company’s clothes; are you?”

“No laws broken if I does.”

“Can’t say there is. You are the hardest working man in Fort Davis.”

“Obliged you mentioning it. Men signed up to fight instead of make adobe bricks, sir.”

“Men are lucky they’re here instead of in Apache country. There’ll be plenty of time for fighting again soon as the Indians get enough nerve to make another raid on the stagecoach.”

“Guess we shot one of their chiefs.” James fished for information.

“Left the bastard with buzzards circling. Never able to find his body. Young buck named after a bird. What was it?” The officer scratched his head.

“Guess it happened after I circled north to try and stop them from getting away. Maybe if I’d been there, my brother wouldn’t gotten killed.”

“No use thinking about it. Man never knows what could have happened. Brave of you going off alone to try and turn the Apaches. Followed their trail. Shot three of their braves. Made them lose a few horses.”

The captain didn’t want to sound condescending to a non-commissioned officer. Giving it some thought, he realized men such as Sergeant Wilkerson ran this Western Army. “I’ve put your name in for meritorious action.”

“Appreciates it, sur.”
“We could do with more like you, Sergeant.”
“Guess I’d better stir the men up a little. Damn, I hate to see them workin’ in this mud.”
“Be good to get us into permanent quarters before winter.”
“Cold ‘bout killed me, sur. Guess you should marry so you could move into one of them houses for married officers.”

“Pleasure’s not worth the pain. Woman here in this place be nothing but trouble. . Say, that chief’s name was Fierce Eagle. Bastard fought even after there was no use fighting.”

The captain’s sweaty horse filled the air with piss smells. Finished, the glossy-coated stallion turned toward headquarters. Unlike lithe Apache ponies, the oat-fed Army horse carried a sleek layer of fat under his shiny coat.

Stripped to their waists, the men of Company B bent their backs to the task of making adobe bricks. Mud splattered, the Company in full strength should have eighty men. With three men in the infirmary and two men on leave, there were only seventy-four. One missing man, James’ beloved younger brother, decayed under a pile of flat sandstone.

“Any mo’ straw, Sarge?” a dark descendent of Ol’ Warrior asked. Out of seventy-nine remaining men in the company, twenty were Wilkerson ex-slaves from Mississippi.

“Zeb, reckon you better take a mule and bring us some from the stable.”

“Thought we came west to fight Indians. Never thought we’d be wallowing around in mud like a bunch of hawgs, James.”

“Pay’s same for whatever we do. Better than an Apache arrow sticking out your back.” Both men thought of the cruel missile that had cut their loved one’s life short.

Zeb made squishing noises walking over to the sleek mule branded with a burnt, U.S. Although it was across the parade ground to the stable, he chose to lead his beast of burden. This particular jenny would not stand to have a muddy rider marring her clean coat.

Wrapping a dried buffalo hide around fresh-smelling oat straw bought from a nearby farmer, Zeb secured the cumbersome burden on the reluctant animal’s back.

Lest he hold up work on the adobe brick manufacturing, the barefooted worker led his mule across short-cropped buffalo grass covering the drill field.

Heat sent little glaring rays of light across the narrow valley. Zeb hoped towering clouds coming over the peaks would bring a cooling shower. Unlike the desert surrounding them, afternoon downpours often fell on the mountains to break the oppressive heat.

The men tromping the remaining straw into sucking muddy clay briefly stopped their arduous work to watch Zeb unload the ludicrous appearing straw pile. To a man, they would rather be on patrol.

Nearby, neatly stacked Army carbines attested to this desire for some other action than wallowing in a mud puddle.

While Company B labored at making thick, cumbersome adobe bricks, Company A men carted dried bricks to where civilian artisans skillfully raised walls surrounding an intended mess hall.

Between anticipating the needs of his men, James watched the building rise from the mountain-surrounded valley floor. Buildings built before the recent Civil War stood with gaping windows and charred remains of roofs. When former soldiers had ridden off to fight their brothers in another war, Comanche and Apache warriors had devastated the abandoned fort.

The sergeant watched a buzzard slowly circle over the limestone cave where he had hidden Apache Rose and her month old baby. Days ago he had bonded to this young woman and her son.

Had James thought it safe, he would have brought his adopted family into the fort’s protecting buildings. He knew officers would either order the young mother and her son killed, or, sent to the mountainous Mascalero reservation in New Mexico.

White officers who ran Fort Davis would not tolerate a maiden squaw of the enemy in their midst. Apache warriors had brutally butchered too many of their people.

The captain’s voice broke into James’ thoughts. “Coach’s already an hour over due. Band of Apaches crossed the Rio Grande last night. Wouldn’t be at all surprised if they attack.”

“Best we forget about these mud bricks and go see, sir.” James hoped trouble would require his Company’s attention. “Cotton field in Mississippi wasn’t one bit worse than this mud pit.”

The returned captain turned his field glasses from east to west. All he saw was a small herd of long horns being driven up to the sutler’s store. Butchers would turn the animals into beef in a day or two. Even men who were not chasing Indians had to eat.

The captain made one last sweep. Hot sunlight glancing off a signaling mirror made three quick flashes.

“Blow the bugle,” the officer commanded. “Stage’s coming in with Apaches.”

James gave a curt order before the bugler had time to lift his instrument. Mud trodders turned into a disciplined cavalry troop. Stacked rifles disappeared. Laborers turned into uniformed fighting men. Racing for their mounts, when the bugler blew charge, the men were eager to obey orders.

Their mounted captain held his hand ready to give the order to attack. The two lieutenants attached to this troop were on special assignment.

Leaving the mud hole behind, mounted men were miraculously turned into fighting soldiers. Mud covered by uniforms did not show.

A dust cloud arose. Cottonwood leaves stirred from a slight breeze the men made when they rode toward a muffled sound of gunfire.

“Sounds like a passel of Apaches,” Zeb said in an awe-filled voice.

James cocked his Sharps in preparation to fire. He knew too many men went into battle and forgot to even load their guns. He also knew Apaches did not give second chances.

Clouds of dust billowed from a frantic team of six horses running for their lives. On top of the coach, a man riding shotgun kept up a constant barrage of firing. Trading his rifle for a shotgun and then a pistol when the pursuing Apaches came closer, he was about to fire at a leading brave when a whistling arrow cleaved him through the heart. Slumping, he went over the side.

Six-shooters held by passengers inside the coach made popping sounds. Men firing randomly had little time to sight at elusive running targets. James knew instinctively his men should circle and come in from the south.

The captain seeing what James intended, split the point and brought one column on the east and one on the west. As his men went by, he gave the command, “Keep out of the Apache’s firing range until you can squeeze them into a vice.”

Gradually the cavalry unit drew even with the coach team. Apaches so intent on putting the cumbersome vehicle out of commission failed to notice they would soon be surrounded. With only a few Sharp rifles mixed in with bows and arrows strengthen by men throwing spears, the renegades knew they must give up their chase and lose themselves in the mountains.

James with ten men sought to close the trap. If he could put a stopper in the neck he would have at least twenty Apache devils so surrounded they would have to surrender.

With Indians locked in mortal combat with cavalrymen, the cumbersome Butterfield coach was free to lumber up to the way station. A rider was already going back to check on the fallen shotgun rider.

The battle between soldiers and Apaches was not over. Men dressed in dark blue uniforms trimmed in yellow closed in on fierce black haired men who had only one thought in mind- to kill the Bluecoats.

A wiry Indian pony made a drastic bid for freedom. James went after the renegade after he told the captain. “This one finds an openin’, we’ll lose the rest.” He spoke only loud enough for the other to hear.

Neck and neck, like hunters in more civilized countries of the world, the pursuer followed the fox. Only this fox with a red neckerchief tied around his head was capable of killing with the arrows he was shooting with deadly accuracy.

Brush along the dusty trail tore at James’ black Cavalry boots. The Apache knew the mountain trail better than the Black sergeant did.

They came to the Fort, and the Apache turned his mount with his knees. The man in blue winced when he saw the pursued was taking the trail leading to the cave where Apache Rose and her baby boy lay in seclusion.

James’ carbine exploded. A squirrel in a live oak tree chattered at the invaders into his privacy. The Apache warrior jumped before his dead horse went crashing over a cliff.

Regaining his bow and arrows, the brave crouched behind a protecting bush while he sought to draw a bead on the hated Buffalo Soldier. James’ rifle bullet tearing into a clay bank caused the Apache to lose his concentration.

James’ second slug tore green leaves. The Indian dropped lower against the rocky mountain soil. His breath came in sharp gasps belying the fact the last bullet had missed its mark.

The warrior looked wildly around. A faint path led across the rocks into an opening from which a faint flickering light shone around a winding passageway. He knew he must find a place to hide while his throbbing head cleared from the bullet gash on his left temple.

Like a snake, the brave left his hiding place and slithered across an open place where James sent another screeching bullet. The fugitive drew his heavy hunting knife while he hurried into the protection of the cave.

James realizing his rifle would be too dangerous to fire in the confining rock walls, placed it in a crevice and went in with saber drawn.

Realizing he could not take time to recover his senses, the brave worked himself deeper into the shelter before he turned to fight.

Dressed only in a breechcloth, the Apache drew himself upright and brought his weapon into play. In broken English, he growled, “White-eye, prepare to meet your maker.”

James answered by thrusting his saber at the warrior’s sweating body.

“You die, Buffalo Solider.” James felt the razor-sharp knife cut a small gash through his uniform sleeve.

Glancing toward the small cooking fire, he saw Apache Rose crouched against the smoke-blacked rock wall. She hid the baby’s eyes tightly against her shapely breast.

James came in fast. With one slash of his saber he knocked the knife causing it to clatter against the rock floor.

“You win because your bullet dazed me,” the sun darkened fighter said. He feigned defeat before he came in low to grab his fallen weapon. James met the surprise attack with a broad shoulder thrust into the fighter’s hard belly.

They both fell to the rock floor. Weapons in hand, they struggled in a death fight. The quick Indian seemed to win. James fell back to regain his advantage.

Not waiting for the bleeding foe to gain his senses, the black man caught his opponent in a death grip that drove the Apache into the cooking fire.

Apache Rose had snared a rabbit she roasted over the smoldering coals. The two opponents sent the succulent meat flying. James took a knee in his crouch before he hammered a right into his opponent’s mid-section.

Fire and fist took their toil. The hurting warrior showed signs of defeat. James grabbed the wrist and shook the cruel hunting knife loose. Grabbing the weapon, he brought it across his fallen foe’s throat.

Pressed back against the glowing coals, the Apache prepared for death.

Apache Rose lost her fear when she realized James was about to kill. “No,” she hissed.

“He tried to kill me.”

“Soldiers did many cruel things to our people.”
“Tell him to roll over on his side and remain perfectly still.”
The frightened girl spoke in Apache. “He will not kill you if you do as he says.”
“You have become a friend to this Buffalo Soldier?
“He saved my life,” she said softly.
“James spoke harshly. “Before I run this pig sticker into his gullet, tell him to lie on his side and bring his arms behind his back.”
“His burns will not allow him to move in such a fashion.”
James took pity on the suffering man. “Bring his arms on his chest. Tie his wrist so can’t use his hands.”

“With what?” the young mother asked as she laid her baby on a pile of soft rabbit skins she had cured.

“With the thongs you catch rabbits. Hurry before my knife grows thirsty for blood.”

“This one and I played together when we were small.” She tightened rawhide while she talked.

“His feet,” James said curtly.
The warrior spoke softly.
“He promises not to run,” the girl said.
“We shall talk after he is tied,” James told the one whose baby he was deeply in love with. When he was sure his foe could no longer move, he slid his hands under the infant’s soft body and held the small naked body against him.

“The soldier is kind to an enemy’s child?”
“He accepts it as his own.”
The warrior spat contemptuously. “Not only is he a soldier, but he called a buffalo.”
“Enough. When my husband did not return from battle, this one delivered my baby and saved my life.”

“He feeds you?”
“He feeds me,” she answered.
“You share your body with him?”
“No. He waits patiently for the mulatto at the fort.”
“You are a fool and a traitor to allow him to come near you.”
“My husband hasn’t come back.”
“Your husband’s bones may hang from a tree,” he hissed.

“Our people left me to die when the baby wouldn’t come out.”
“This one frightened them away.”
“He has been very gentle with me.”
The warrior squirmed when Apache Rose rubbed juice from a plant on his back.




.

SharperImage.com Gifts Coupon